r  • 


"She  has  conic  to  poison  UK  ! "    (Page  198.) 

(Frontispiece  ) 


Her  Desperate  Victory. 


Bv  MRS.  M.  L.  RAYNE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "AGAINST  FATE,"  "  WHAT  CAN  A  WOMAN  Do?"  ETC. 


"  A   novel  is  the  world's  truth  witn  a  beautiful  woman 
walking  through  it"—  PROFESSOR  DAVID  SWING. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  T.  W.  WILLIAMS. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK  : 

BELFORD,  CLARKE  &   CO. 

1886. 


COPYRIGHT, 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  &  CO. 


DONOHUE  A  HENNEBERRY, 
PRINTERS  AND  BINDERS,  CHICAGO. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
Manifest  Destiny 9 

CHAPTER  II. 
A  Literary  Workshop 29 

CHAPTER  III. 
Clyffe  House 48 

CHAPTER  IV. 
"Maje" 57 

CHAPTER  V. 
' '  The  Stepmother's  Breath  " 73 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Letters  and  Letters   91 

CHAPTER  VII. 

"  We  Have  Been  Friends  Together  " 107 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
Shamming 116 

CHAPTER  IX. 

What's  in  a  Name  ?    1 34 

3 


4  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X. 

We  Two 143 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Nobody  Knows 1 54 

CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Rock  Me  to  Sleep,  Mother  " 165 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  Green-eyed 178 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  Silent  Treatment 195 

CHAPTER  XV. 

Crooked  Paths  Made  Straight  206 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  Respite 226 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
Thy  King  Cometh 235 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  She  Has  Come  to  Poison  Me!" FRONTISPIECE. 

The  Mystic  Cup  is  Broken 35 

"  Maje  "  Brings  a  Letter 85 

Cherry  Pleads  for  Something  Funny 129 

Cherry  and  Mammy 171 


Her  Desperate  Victory. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MANIFEST   DESTINY. 

It  was  the  first  week  of  vacation  at  the 
Princeton  Seminary,  and  the  young  lady 
pupils  of  that  far-famed  institution  had 
nearly  all  returned  to  their  homes,  some 
with  the  expectation  of  resuming  their 
studies  at  the  next  term,  others  to  take 
their  places  in  the  world  for  whose  ardu- 
ous duties  they  were  supposed  to  be  fully 
equipped.  Those  bore  with  them,  as  proud 
trophies  of  success,  the  small  roll  of  parch- 
ment which  must  decide  their  educational 
status,  and  the  precious  many-adjectived, 
laboriously-composed  essay  or  theme,  as  it 
was  usually  designated,  which  had  been 
held  with  trembling  white-gloved  fingers 
and  read  with  rhetorical  effect  before  a 


10  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

hushed  and  admiring  audience.  The  Prince- 
ton Seminary  belonged  to  the  ringletted 
and  pantaletted  period.  It  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  higher  education  of  woman. 
Its  pupils  were  young  ladies,  classed  and 
specified  as  such.  They  were  taught  a 
Chesterfieldian  politeness  and  the  most  pop- 
ular rules  of  deportment ;  how  to  courtesy 
with  ease,  leave  and  enter  a  room  properly, 
and  utter  graceful  nothings  in  a  pretty, 
lisping  speech  that  was  etymologically  cor- 
rect. They  also  learned  to  recite  in  French, 
write  a  fine  Italian  hand,  play  the  piano- 
forte, and  sing  sweetly  and  plaintively  some 
tender  strain  of  sentiment,  such  as  that 
much-loved  madrigal,  "  The  moon  is  low 
down  in  the  sky,  Lorena,"  These  pleas- 
ant studies  were  considered  of  more  im- 
portance than  history  or  mathematics. 
They  were  the  classics  of  the  age  when 
the  one  leading  idea  of  a  finished  educa- 
tion was  to  fit  young  ladies  for  the  mod- 
erate triumphs  of  drawing-room  life,  and 
the  ultima  thule  of  safe  and  prosperous  mar- 
riage. Occasionally  a  girl  who  thought, 


MANIFEST  DESTINY.  11 

asked  for  a  wider  range  of  knowledge,  but 
unless  she  was  preparing  to  marry  a  mis- 
sionary, or  become  a  teacher  herself,  she 
was  regarded  as  strong-minded,  and,  in 
consequence,  unwomanly.  The  graduates 
of  that  school  are  all  familiar  pictures  of 
the  past.  Good  gentlewomen,  endowed 
with  many  foolish  ideas  and  useless  accom- 
plishments, but  utterly  unfit  to  battle  with 
the  strong,  rough  winds  and  waves  of  ad- 
verse circumstance.  Helplessly  dependent 
on  others  until  that  heroic  element  which 
lies  dormant  in  the  weakest  female  char- 
acter arose  in  self-assertion  and  saved  its 
possessor  from  total  shipwreck,  then  the 
peurile  lessons  of  a  school  of  accomplish- 
ments were  unlearned  and  some  practical 
study  caught  at,  as  a  shipwrecked  man 
catches  at  the  saving  plank. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  deride  the  system 
of  education  taught  in  those  days.  It  was 
sufficient  unto  the  day  and  generation  with 
the  majority  of  its  pupils, — the  women  who, 
endowed  with  a  mediocrity  of  accomplish- 
ments, never  felt  the  necessity  of  a  deeper 


12  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

knowledge.  The  women  who  since  then 
have  worked  in  the  ranks  as  toilers  for 
daily  bread  needed  a  stronger  educational 
diet,  and  out  of  their  necessities  the  broad 
scope  which  to-day  includes  a  sexless  hori- 
zon has  grown  and  widened.  The  girls 
who  excel  in  piano-playing  and  embroid- 
ery to-day  are  professionals,  who  turn  to 
good  account  the  accomplishments  of  the 
past.  The  sentimental  nature  is  made  sub- 
servient to  the  practical.  Mathematics  have 
crowded  out  worsted-work  from  the  wom- 
an's college.  Poetry  and  potatoes,  form 
a  harmonious  partnership  of  beauty  and 
utility,  and  the  Lydia  Languishes  of  society 
exist  only  in  nomenclature.  The  change  is 
a  radical  and  wholesome  one,  as  if  a  diet 
of  cream-cakes  had  been  exchanged  for  one 
of  bread-and-butter. 

There  were  three  members  of  the  gradu- 
ating class  who  still  remained  at  the  Prince- 
ton Seminary,  and  these  were  now  in  the 
throes  of  packing.  They  were  no  longer 
school-girls,  but,  according  to  the  formulas 
of  the  day,  finished  young  ladies.  Two  of 


MANIFEST   DESTINY.  13 

these  were  seated  in  a  much-littered  room, 
gazing  despondently  upon  several  dismem- 
bered trunks  that  stood  about  with  yawn- 
ings  lids  and  resembled  anything  but  arks 
of  safety  to  their  chaotic  population  on  the 
floor.  Lace  shawls  and  white  dresses  of 
fluffy  muslin,  kid  slippers  and  ribbon  sashes, 
white  gloves  and  withered  bouquets,  were 
flung  together  in  a  hopeless  abandon  of 
disorder.  There  were  two  narrow  dormi- 
tory beds  in  the  room,  and  on  each  of 
these  a  weary  young  person  reclined  in  a 
hurried  negligee  in  keeping  with  the  sur- 
roundings. 

"  Where  is  Beatrice  ? "  asked  the  smaller 
and  younger  of  the  two,  a  petite  girl  with  a 
great  profusion  of  fair  hair  and  a  pair  of  ap- 
pealing blue  eyes. 

"I  have  called  her.  She  will  be  here 
presently,"  answered  the  other,  a  spare,  dark 
girl,  with  a  wearied  look  that  was  habitual 
to  her. 

"  Oh  dear !  "  exclaimed  the  first  speaker, 
who  rejoiced  in  the  pretty  name  of  Alma. 
"Who  was  it  remarked  that  'Order  is 


14  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

heaven's  first  law,'  or  something  to  that 
effect  ?  " 

"  Have  you  forgotten  your  Pope  so  soon, 
Alma  ?  "  asked  her  friend,  whose  name  was 
Adelaide.  She  was  fanning  herself  lazily 
with  a  lace  handkerchief  drawn  at  random 
from  the  heap  on  the  floor. 

"  Was  it  Pope  ?  "  inquired  Alma,  doubling 
a  pillow  and  fitting  it  into  the  small  of  her 
back,  with  a  heroic  effort  to  be  comfortable. 
"  Well,  you  know,  Adelaide,  I  was  always 
famous  for  forgetting  all  I  should  remember, 
and  remembering  all  I  should  forget.  I 
know  it  was  Pope  who  said,  '  the  proper 
study  of  mankind  is  man.'  He  should  have 
said  of  womankind.  I  intend  to  act  upon 
his  advice  immediately  if  not  sooner." 

"He  meant  man  in  the  abstract,"  cor- 
rected Adelaide.  "A  classification  which  in- 
cludes women  also." 

"  I  presume  so,"  responded  Alma;  "  but  in 
the  abstract,  or  concrete,  or,  like  oysters,  in  the 
raw,  I  shall  make  him  my  study,  dear,  until 
I  discover  my  own  peculiar  specimen.  Then 
I  shall  subjugate  and  preserve  him  as  a 


MANIFEST   DESTINY.  15 

curio  worthy  the  attention  of  a  lifetime. 
Oh,  there  comes  Beatrice!  Enter,  Lady 
Macbeth ! 

"  The  thane  of  Fife 
Had  a  wife— 
Where  is  she  now?" 

The  new  comer  was  a  handsome,  stately 
girl,  with  a  beautiful,  generous  face,  that 
wore  a  pleasant  smile  which  bespoke  a  disci- 
plined nature.  She  was  slightly  older  than 
the  other  two,  and  advanced  with  a  gentle 
air  of  sisterly  seniority.  Accepting  the  role 
of  Lady  Macbeth  as  pleasantly  as  it  was 
offered,  she  held  up  her  hands  and  rubbed 
them  tragically,  observing  in  dramatic  tones, 
as  she  saw  the  heap  of  unconquered  packing 
on  the  floor,  "  Infirm  of  purpose  !  Give  me 
the  dagger !  " 

"  Bee,  darling,"  drawled  Alma,  lazily, 
"  won't  you  come  over  and  help  us  ?" 

She  was  the  only  one  who  had  ever  called 
the  dignified  Beatrice  by  this  pet  name. 

"The  cry  of  Macedonia,"  responded  Bea- 
trice, "heard  in  all  ages  and  every  land, 
dear,  as  Miss  Richards  would  say.  '  Order 


16  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

gave  each  thing  to  men,'  now  why  not  to 
women?  You  could  never  create  a  world 
out  of  this  chaos  unless  you  chose  a  system. 
Here  are  silk  stockings  stuffed  into  the 
crown  of  a  Dunstable  bonnet.  A  Sontag 
coquetting  with  a  Garibaldi.  Oh,  girls,  is 
this  the  outcome  of  all  good  Miss  Richards' 
faithful  teaching?  Only  confusion  and  dis- 
order?" 

"  Don't  lecture  us,  dear  Lady  Macbeth," 
besought  Adelaide.  "  What  we  need  just 
now  is  assistance  rather  than  advice.  As 
the  situation  appears  just  now  it's  '  a'  a 
muddle.' " 

"We  ought  to  have  a  maid,"  observed 
the  pretty  Alma,  swinging  a  small,  slippered 
foot  with  unnecessary  violence,  and  not 
attempting  to  move.  "  Mamma  packed  my 
trunk  when  I  came,  but  how  she  did  it  is  a 
mystery  to  me.  Adelaide,  who  packed 
yours?  " 

"  I  did  it  myself,"  answered  her  friend, 
coolly.  "  Being  the  eldest  of  six  children 
and  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman,  I  have 
been  compelled  to  make  myself  useful  on 


MANIFEST  DESTINY.  17 

several  occasions  in  my  life.  I  packed  that 
trunk  to  come  here,  but  either  the  trunk 
has  condensed  or  the  contents  expanded. 
I  got  them  all  in  once,  but  in  such  a  hig- 
gledy-piggledy shape  that  I  was  ashamed  of 
it,  and  dragged  them  out  again.  I  know 
the  children  will  all  crowd  around  to  see 
it  unpacked,  and  I  don't  want  them  to 
think  that  I  know  less  than  when  I  came 
here.  I  wonder  if  anything  less  vigorous 
than  a  pitchfork  will  reduce  that  heap  on 
the  floor." 

"  If  you  will  change  places  with  me, 
Alma,  I  will  show  you  how  to  pack  a 
trunk,"  said  Beatrice,  "and  Adelaide  can 
look  on  and  take  lessons  at  the  same  time." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Bee,  darling,"  responded 
Alma,  heartily.  She  was  ashamed  of  her 
remark  about  a  maid.  The  only  one  of  the 
trio  who  could  have  afforded  such  a  luxury 
was  the  self-helpful  Beatrice,  who  was  so 
prompt  to  remember  the  command,  "  Bear 
one  another's  burdens,"  and  hold  out  a  hand 
to  every  one  who  was  in  need,  making  her 
life  a  perpetual  sunshine  for  others. 


18  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"And  now  to  business,"  said  Alma,  sliding 
off  the  bed.  "  First " 

"  First  catch  your  hare,"  suggested  Bea- 
trice, seating  herself  deliberately  on  the  vacat- 
ed couch.  "  Take  all  the  articles  that  are 
identified  and  place  them  by  the  owner's 
trunk.  Mate  stockings  and  gloves;  fold 
neatly,  and  pack  in  their  respective  compart- 
ments each  after  its  kind.  By  systematizing 
your  work  in  this  way  you  simplify  it.  Your 
mountain  of  difficulties  has  already  become 
a  mole-hill  of  order." 

"Beatrice,  you  are  a  Napoleon  among 
women  !"  exclaimed  Adelaide,  with  admiring 
energy. 

"  I  hope  not.  I  should  be  sorry  if  my 
plans  worked  disaster  only." 

"  Well,  then,  you  were  born,  Hamlet-like, 
to  set  the  times  right  and  evolve  order  out 
of  chaos." 

"  Bee,  darling,  what  a  step-mother  you 
would  make,"  suggested  Alma. 

"  Heaven  forbid,"  responded  Beatrice,  fer- 
vently. "  I  could  scarcely  be  reconciled  to 
life  if  I  thought  it  held  such  a  dreadful  fate 


MANIFEST   DESTINY.  19 

for  me.  Of  all  responsibilities  that  of  raising 
the  children  of  dead  mothers  must  be  the 
most  trying.  There  are  few  women  capable 
of  bringing  up  their  own  children  properly, 
even  with  natural  love  as  a  guide.  How, 
then,  would  they  acquit  themselves  with  cold 
duty  as  their  only  inducement?" 

"Besides  acquiring  the  odious  title  of 
step-mother,"  remarked  Adelaide.  "Why 
could  not  that  word  of  ill-omen  be  softened 
into  something  more  endearing?  It  has 
always  been  used  as  a  bugbear  to  frighten 
children  with." 

"  I  would  suggest  second-mother,  or  moth- 
erkin,"  said  Alma. 

"  I  never  can  remember  the  time  that  I 
did  not  dread  and  mistrust  the  name,"  con- 
tinued Beatrice,  who  grew  excited  as  she 
talked.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have  not  con- 
gratulated myself  upon  being  an  orphan  since 
my  desolate  condition  forbade  the  possibility 
of  a  step-parent.  I  remember  an  old  neigh- 
bor at  home  whose  second  wife  raised  a 
whole  family  of  little  ones  left  by  his  first 
spouse.  She  made  them  such  an  excellent 


20  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

mother  that  they  could  never  have  told  the 
difference,  yet  when  she  died  they  buried 
her  off  by  herself  and  recorded  her  name  on 
the  family  monument  so  that  it  read  like 
this: 

"Our  Father. 

Our  Mother. 

Our  Step-mother. 

"And  I  recall  an  early  prejudice  caused  by 
reading  a  weird  Scotch  ballad  in  which  the 
two-year-old  child  of  a  dead  mother  cries 
itself  to  sleep  while  the  father  is  receiving 
congratulations  with  his  bride  in  the  parlors 
beneath.  While  the  banqueting  is  at  its 
height  a  sudden  shadow  falls  upon  the  com- 
pany, the  lights  burn  blue,  and  a  plaintive 
voice  is  heard  crooning  the  lullaby  the  dead 
mother  used  to  sing.  It  is  drowned  out  with 
the  festal  music,  and  the  gaiety  is  resumed, 
but  the  next  morning  the  cradle  of  the  infant 
is  empty  and  it  is  never  again  seen.  The 
inference  is  that  its  own  mother  had  borne  it 
away  to  save  it  from  the  neglect  of  the 
second  wife." 

"What  folly,"  said  Adelaide.    "I  remem- 


MANIFEST   DESTINY.  21 

her  when  a  family  came  to  live  in  our  neigh- 
borhood who  had  two  children,  a  boy  and 
girl.  We  knew  that  one  was  the  child  of  a 
first  wife  and  soon  decided  which  one — the 
smallest  of  the  two  being  a  delicate  boy  who 
was  petted  and  fondled  at  home,  while  the 
larger  girl  was  sent  off  regularly  to  school, 
rain  or  shine.  Of  course  all  the  neighbors 
interested  themselves  in  the  movements  of 
this  child,  who  was  the  slave  of  the  sick  and 
petted  one,  until  they  learned  that  the  boy, 
dwarfed  by  illness,  was  the  eldest  and  the 
step-child.  After  that  they  attended  to 
their  own  affairs." 

"Young  ladies,"  said  a  formal  voice  at 
the  door,  as  Miss  Richards,  the  principal, 
appeared  there,  following  her  brief  rap  with 
simultaneous  haste,  "  you  will  certainly  be 
late  for  luncheon.  You  should  have  finished 
your  packing  last  evening." 

"  It  is  nearly  accomplished  now,  Miss 
Richards,"  said  Adelaide,  who  had  been 
careering  wildly  around  the  room  as  she 
talked,  her  head  enveloped  in  an  empty 
stocking  bag.  "  Our  trunks  will  be  ready 


22  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

very  soon  now.  Beatrice  is  helping  us  pack 
them." 

"Ah  !  then  something  may  result,"  said 
Miss  Richards,  with  approval.  "  Luncheon  at 
one  to-day,  young  ladies."  And  the  light  of 
her  countenance  was  grimly  withdrawn. 

"  Can  you  ever  remember  having-luncheon 
at  any  other  hour  in  this  institution,  young 
ladies?"  queried  Alma,  pertly. 

"  No,"  said  Adelaide  ;  "  I  never  did."  The 
lid  of  her  trunk  was  supported  upon  her  head, 
and  her  voice  sounded  cavernous  from  its 
hollow  depths  as  she  went  on  talking.  "  The 
sun  might  cease  to  shine,  or  the  earth  to 
revolve,  or  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians change,  or  Miss  Richards  forget  to  send 
in  our  bills  when  due,  but  never  yet  has  she 
been  known  to  vary  that  lunch  hour." 

"There  goes  the  gong  of  fate,"  cried 
Alma,  giving  her  sunny  locks  a  sudden 
and  brief  arrangement.  "  Never  mind  dis- 
ordered hair.  What  is  that  to  missing  our 
mid-day  repast?" 

"Alma,"  remarked  Beatrice,  gently,  ''never 
9  larrel  with  your  bread-and-butter." 


MANIFEST  DESTINY.  23 

"  It  would  be  utterly  useless,  Bee,  darling, 
to  wage  war  with  anything  as  strong  as  the 
Princeton  butter.  Besides,  I  am  just  on 
the  point  of  famishing.  '  For  what  we  are 
now  about  to  receive' — it's  your  turn  today, 
Adelaide." 

When  they  had  eaten  in  prim  pedagogic 
silence  Miss  Richards  took  her  leave,  opin- 
ing with  some  discretion  that  the  three 
would  greatly  prefer  her  room  to  her  com- 
pany upon  this  last  occasion  of  their  school 
life.  And  she  was  right.  No  sooner  had 
the  door  closed  upon  her  sloping  shoul- 
ders and  cork-screw  curls  than  they  be- 
came merry,  confidential  and  convivial 
over  "  the  cup  which  cheers,  but  not  in- 
ebriates." They  drank  off  their  tea  with 
inspired  haste,  taking  care  to  leave 
"  grounds  for  complaint  "  in  the  bottom  of 
each  cup.  They  clinked  their  cups  sol- 
emnly, and  each  recorded  a  secret  wish, 
while  they  turned  them  around  slowly 
several  times.  Then  the  dark-eyed  Adelaide 
recited  gravely,  as  she  gazed  with  mysteri- 
ous looks  into  the  bottom  of  her  cup  : 


24  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  Read  me  my  cup  of  tea, 

Sybil  of  fate. 
Tell  what  it  holds  for  me 

Of  love  or  hate. 
Unlock  with  magic  key 
Life's  dream  of  mystery. 

"See  !   it  is  all  there- 
Love,  fortune,  ring. 
Dark  man,  woman  fair. 

Life's  a  good  thing 
Lived  in  the  magic  bounds 
Of  a  tea-cup's  tell-tale  grounds." 

"  Be  a  sybil  of  fate,  Adelaide,  and  teil 
us  our  fortunes,"  pleaded  the  pretty  Alma. 

"  Beatrice  will  think  I  am  too  frivolous,'' 
said  Adelaide.  She  loved  her  older  and 
graver  companion,  and  never  practiced  upon 
her  any  of  the  mad  and  merry  pranks 
which  made  her  so  popular  with  the  fun- 
loving  members  of  the  school. 

"There  is  a  time  for  nonsense,  and  this 
is  the  time,"  answered  Beatrice,  entering 
at  once  into  the  spirit  of  the  fun.  "  Here, 
Adelaide,  read  my  fortune  first." 

She  handed  her  cup  to  the  girl,  who 
turned  it  slowly  in  her  hands,  repeating 


MANIFEST  DESTINY.  25 

the  usual  formula  caught  from  some  stroll- 
ing gypsy. 

"  There  is  a  letter  coming  to  you  that 
contains  a  surprise.  You  are  going  to  take 
a  journey.  There  is  a  dark  man  who  loves 
you,  but  beware  of  a  fair  woman.  She  will 
make  you  trouble.  You  will  be  twice  mar- 
ried, for  there  are  two  rings.  There  is  some 
trouble, — and — and —  '  Adelaide  hesitated, 
stopped,  and  the  cup  fell  from  her  hand 
with  a  crash  and  lay  broken  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  Adelaide,  you  have  spoiled  her 
fortune,"  exclaimed  Alma,  regretfully. 

"  Surely  that  was  enough,"  said  Ade- 
laide. "  Beatrice  does  not  believe  in  fort- 
une-telling." 

"You  did  not  end  with  the  usual  form- 
ula, '  live  long  and  be  happy,' "  said  Bea- 
trice, as  she  picked  up  the  broken  cup. 

"Are  you  superstitious,  Beatrice?"  asked 
the  girl,  with  some  agitation. 

"  No,"  answered  Beatrice  ;  "  and  I  think 
I  can  finish  my  fortune,  which  you  are 
afraid  to  read.  It  may  be  superstition  or 
it  may  be  science,  but  I  have  had  the  one 


26  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

fortune  bespoken  for  me  since  my  birth. 
Astrologers  have  consulted  the  stars  and 
found  it  there.  The  Romany  has  deci- 
phered it  in  the  palm  of  my  hand.  Old 
wives  have  read  it  in  my  tea-cup.  Soothsay- 
ers predicted  it  with  cards.  It  is  always  the 
same.  Twice  married  ;  much  disappoint- 
ment; a  life  that  ends  short  of  old  age. 
Now  what  does  it  matter,  supposing  that 
my  life  should  be  of  short  duration  ?  '  That 
life  is  long  which  answers  life's  best  end.' 
I  may  have  drained  the  cup  of  pleasure  or 
the  bowl  of  sorrow  before  then,  and  •  be 
content  to  go.  You  see,  Adelaide,  your 
prophecy  does  not  disturb  me.  It  is  too 
much  like  the  common  lot." 

"  You  have  given  me  a  chill,  with  your 
dismal  fortune-telling,"  cried  Alma.  "  Now 
listen  while  I  read  mine.  I  won't  have 
any  tea-cup  oracle,  with  its  rings  and  mis- 
fortunes. I  am  to  marry  a  dark  man, 
whom  I  will  love  very  much.  He  will  adore 
me  and  give  me  everything  I  want.  As 
soon  as  I  begin  to  fade  and  grow  old  I 
will  gracefully  wrap  the  drapery  of  my 


MANIFEST  DESTINY.  27 

couch  about  me  and  lie  down  to  pleasant 
dreams." 

"While  I,"  predicted  Adelaide,  who  had 
recovered  her  spirits,  "will  be  content  to 
remain  in  single  blessedness,  the  useful  and 
beloved  old-maid  sister,  loving  and  serving, 
until  some  fine  day  I  am  suddenly  missed, 
having  fulfilled  all  my  duties,  dried  up  and 
blown  away." 

All  then  laughed,  and  sunshine  was  re- 
stored. They  chatted  sentimentally  in  girl- 
fashion,  and  with  arms  intertwined  took 
a  farewell  walk  out  in  the  high-boarded, 
secluded  grounds,  exchanging  little  con- 
fidences and  dreading  to  say  good-by. 
Beatrice  even  permitted  them  to  see  the 
face  in  a  certain  gold  locket  she  wore  round 
her  neck,  after  the  fashion  of  the  day.  She 
alone  enjoyed  the  distinction  of  having  a 
lover.  His  was  a  handsome  face — that  of 
a  Byronic  youth,  with  tender  eyes  and  a 
weak  mouth,  that  showed  boyish  indecision. 
Alma  declared  that  he  was  as  lovely  as  a 
poet.  Adelaide  said  nothing,  but  wondered 
at  her  friend's  choice.  But  she,  too,  admired 


28  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

his  poetic  beauty.  Beatrice  looked  at  the 
youthful  face  with  that  all-absorbing  love 
which  ennobles  its  object.  To  her  he  was  a 
young  god  whom  she  had  worshiped  ar- 
dently since  childhood.  Alas !  she  had  yet 
to  learn  that  men  are  gods  in  purpose  only. 
In  a  few  hours  the  trio  of  school  friends 
parted — oh  !  when  to  meet  again  ?  Of  their 
fortunes  this  may  be  told:  In  her  early 
youth,  before  sorrow  had  cast  one  shadow 
over  her  sunny  life,  the  fair-haired  Alma 
was  called  to  lie  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 
Adelaide  married  a  missionary  teacher,  and 
following  the  inspired  example  of  the  Jud- 
sons  went  out  to  the  Christian  fold  in 
distant  Burmah.  But  no  tidings  ever  came 
of  the  ship  on  which  she  sailed.  Whether 
it  stranded  on  rocky  and  inhospitable 
shores,  or  went  down  in  mid-ocean  with  all 
its  colors  flying,  will  never  be  known  till 
the  sea  gives  up  its  dead.  So  after  all 
Beatrice  was  the  only  one  who  lived  to 
verify  the  fortunes  so  thoughtlessly  pre- 
dicted. And  it  is  with  her  only  of  the 
three  that  these  pages  have  to  do. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A  LITERARY   WORKSHOP. 

One  of  the  popular  methods  by  which 
a  woman  can  secure  an  independent  in- 
come, and  at  the  same  time  preserve  her 
social  status  is  by  furnishing  her  own 
ideas  and  opinions  for  reading  matter  in 
the  newspapers  or  magazines  of  the  day. 
Literature  has  for  a  century  offered  its  ad- 
vantages to  women  as  indiscriminately  as 
to  men.  Journalism,  however,  was  slow  to 
adopt  her  or  allow  her  to  enter  its  narrower 
and  more  restricted  domain,  which  was 
fenced  in  with  jealous  care.  By  stepping 
over  the  bars  here  and  there,  scaling  the 
fence  itself,  or  making  new  gates  that 
opened  outwardly,  she  succeeded  at  last 
in  getting  a  foothold.  Once  within,  she 
remained  as  a  worker,  goaded  and  harassed 

at  every  step  by  the  conventionalities  of  the 
29 


30  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

past.  But  championed  by  such  women  as 
Margaret  Fuller  and  "  Fanny  Fern  "  she  has 
established  her  right  to  venture,  and  her 
ability  to  succeed.  Less  scientific  than  her 
brother,  she  has  won  a  high  place  in  poetry 
and  fiction,  and  her  graceful  imagination 
has  lighted  the  duller  work  of  her  profound 
and  philosophical  co-laborer.  It  may  be 
said  of  her  much  writing  that  it  lacks  so- 
lidity and  is  ephemeral,  but  if  it  fills  the 
need  of  the  hour  it  has  its  excuse  for  being. 
The  writings  of  women  are  less  venomous 
than  those  of  men.  They  are  nearly  always 
educational,  or  at  least  helpful.  Few 
women  have  written  words  that  dying  they 
would  wish  to  blot. 

This  brings  me  to  a  certain  newspaper 
office  of  the  present  time  —  that  of  a 
prominent  and  prosperous  daily  journal  with 
a  world-wide  record — and  to  the  editor-in- 
chief  thereof,  who  sat,  upon  this  particular 
occasion,  in  his  daintily  furnished  private 
room,  engaged  in  opening  the  mail  for  the 
day,  or,  at  least,  such  part  of  it  as  was 
addressed  to  him  personally.  It  was  a  lux- 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  31 

ury  of  labor.  First  he  scanned  carefully 
through  his  gold-bowed  eye-glasses  the  super- 
scription and  the  postmark,  after  the  fashion 
of  the  dilletante.  Then  he  carefully  cut  the 
envelope  with  a  pair  of  minute  office  scissors, 
and  if  the  stamp  was  a  foreign  one  removed 
it  with  a  tender  regard  for  some  child-col- 
lector to  whom  he  had  promised  it.  If  the 
envelope  contained  "  return  postage "  he 
dropped  that  systematically  in  the  place  ap- 
pointed for  it.  Finally,  he  drew  forth  the 
manuscript,  written  pathetically  often,  in  a 
woman's  hand,  and  glanced  over  it  with  a 
practiced  eye.  No  frown  corrugated  his 
handsome  brow  as  he  read,  and  the  grace- 
ful, drooping  mustache  hid  any  expression 
of  his  well  closed  lips.  Occasionally  he 
would  write  a  comment  with  a  rapid  pencil 
on  the  envelope.  It  was  no  part  of  his 
business  to  answer  these  letters  himself. 
The  editor  of  the  Day  Star,  that  paragon 
of  journalism,  had  long  since  graduated 
from  the  school  of  drudgery.  Proprietary 
interests  gave  him  enough  to  do.  He  had 
merely  to  hand  the  letters  to  an  assistant 


32  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

who  was  familiar  with  Day-Star  tactics  and 
was  a  good  penman. 

When  the  editor-in-chief  had  glanced  in 
this  comprehensive  manner  through  each 
letter  he  massed  them  in  a  formidable  pile 
and  said  aloud : 

"  All  these  from  women  who  think  they 
have  a  call  to  write,  and  Vho  have  no  more 
idea  of  journalism  than  a  Skye  terrier  has  of 
hunting  foxes." 

Apropos  of  his  illustration  I  will  here 
interpolate  a  story  of  this  particular  editor, 
who  was  very  fond  of  dogs,  especially  those 
large  and  heroic  mastiffs  which  combine 
great  proportions  with  gentleness  and  do- 
cility. One  day  a  poet,  with  eye  in  fine 
frenzy  rolling,  called  at  the  office  of  the 
Day  Star  and  found  his  way  to  the  private 
sanctum  of  its  editor.  A  magnificent  St. 
Bernard  accompanied  him,  and  walked  famil- 
iarly about  the  art-decorated  room,  knocking 
down  some  cherished  knick-knack  with 
every  whisk  of  his  enormous  tail.  The 
editor  waited  with  silent  and  unwelcoming 
mien.  The  poet  began  to  read  some  verses 


A   LITERARY    WORKSHOP.  33 

on  the  death  of  Cleopatra,  while  the  dog  set 
up  a  prolonged  howl  of  homesickness  as  an 
accompaniment. 

"  Queen  of  ancient  tragedy!  " — bow — wow 
— wow — wow — ow — w. 

"  Whose  animal  is  that  ?  "  asked  the  editor, 
wrathfully. 

"  Mine,  sir,"  stammered  the  poet. 

"  Put  him  out !  "  commanded  the  editor. 

The  poet  seized  the  dog  by  the  scruff  of 
the  neck  and  dragged  him  across  the  edi- 
torial carpet,  into  which  the  unhappy  animal 
sunk  his  toe-nails  with  desperate  resistance. 
There  was  a  brief  scuffle  on  the  outside,  and 
then  the  bump — bump — bump  of  the  dog's 
ignominious  descent  as  he  went  down  the 
long  flight  of  stairs,  impelled  by  his  owner's 
boot. 

The  perspiring  and  discouraged  poet  re- 
turned to  the  editor's  parlor  and  resumed  the 
"  Death  of  Cleopatra." 

"  Queen  of  ancient  tragedy, " 

"  Did  you  kick  him  ? "  interjected  the 
editor. 

"  Y-yes,  sir." 


34  HER    DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  And  threw  him  down  stairs?  " 

"Ye-e-s,  sir." 

"  Then  permit  me  to  say  that  you  are  a 
greater  brute  than  the  dog.  Take  your  stuff 
away.  I  have  no  use  for  it." 

And  the  poet  who  had  been  guilty  of  cru- 
elty to  animals  retired  to  study  over  this  new 
enforcement  of  humanitarian  laws. 

Another  uncommon  attribute  of  goodness 
this  sybarite  of  editors  possessed  in  his  love 
and  reverence  for  old  age.  He  liked  to 
study  it  in  its  picturesque  aspect,  and  he 
admired  and  respected  it  as  a  masterpiece  of 
Time.  He  found  in  it  heroic  elements, 
and  compared  it  to  a  sentinel  on  the  out- 
post of  life,  waiting  for  an  honorable  dis- 
charge from  the  post  of  duty.  Each  old 
man  or  old  woman  he  encountered  was  for 
the  time  his  father  or  his  mother.  To  them 
he  gave  the  unspoiled,  boyish  side  of  his 
character,  sunny  and  radiant  with  the 
warmth  of  his  heart. 

As  this  is  not  a  fancy  sketch  of  an  ideal 
situation  I  hope  I  may  be  permitted  to  lin- 
ger over  it  a  little.  I  wish  I  could  repro- 


The  cup  fell  from  her  hand  with  a  crash,     (Page  25.) 


A  LITERARY  WORKSHOP.  37 

duce  that  pretty  room,  with  its  esthetic 
walls  and  furnishings,  its  low,  broad  table, 
upon  which  flowers  always  bloomed,  and  its 
silent  inmate,  to  whom  so  many  Miltons — 
neither  mute  nor  inglorious  in  their  own 
estimation — brought  execrable  verse,  written 
upon  both  sides  of  the  paper. 

This  warehouse  for  brain  products  opened 
like  a  facade  upon  the  public  hall  of  the 
handsome  building,  which  was  a  monument 
to  the  prosperity  of  the  Day  Star  Company, 
and  any  one  who  entered  it,  at  once  faced 
the  autocrat  editor,  who  did  not  allow  him- 
self to  be  in  the  least  disturbed,  and  whose 
emotions  were  kept  so  well  in  hand  that  he 
did  not  intimate  to  the  intruder  by  the 
movement  of  a  muscle  that  he  was  aware  of 
any  other  presence  than  his  own. 

This  reticence  of  observation  did  not  tend 
to  put  the  literary  aspirant  at  ease,  and  the 
result  was  usually  a  stammered  and  incoher- 
ent treatise  upon  the  weather,  accompanied 
by  a  roll  of  manuscript  laid  with  trembling 
boldness  upon  the  artistically  disposed  desk. 
If  the  author  entered  into  any  defense  of  the 


38  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

manuscript  the  editor  encouraged  the  confi- 
dence so  flatteringly  given,  by  no  look  or 
suggestion,  and  he  received  the  precious 
manuscript  so  tremblingly  extended  with 
the  cool  impassiveness  of  custom.  If  his 
visitor  talked  he  listened  patiently  as  long  as 
he  was  interested  ;  then  he  looked  at  his 
watch.  And  the  most  persistent  talker 
ceased  his  narrative  and  backed  out  as  from 
the  presence  of  royalty. 

Then  the  editor  yawned,  threw  the  un- 
opened manuscript  into  a  drawer,  turned  the 
key  on  it  and  went  home.  Months,  possibly 
years,  afterward  it  would  be  taken  out,  read 
carefully,  and  if  available — which  meant  ex- 
cellent in  all  points — it  was  published  with  a 
commendatory  notice  and  a  generous  check 
sent  to  the  writer,  if  living — to  the  heirs  if 
dead. 

For  out  of  this  fiery  furnace  the  Shad- 
rachs,  Meshachs  and  Abednegoes  of  litera- 
ture walked  with  no  smell  of  fire  on  their 
garments.  Mine  editor  knew  genuine  merit 
and  appreciated  it.  The  pretty  sketch,  the 
pen-picture  that  brought  tears  to  the  eyes 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  39 

with  its  pathetic  touches,  the  humor  that 
made  a  whole  world  laugh,  the  poem  that 
was  a  strain  of  music,  how  quick  he  was  to 
appreciate  and  capture  them  for  the  Day 
Star.  Reserved  and  pitiless  to  the  stranger 
at  his  gates,  he  was  open  and  confiding  to 
the  friend  he  elected  to  serve. 

"  Hear  this,"  he  would  say  to  confidential 
ears,  and  then  in  a  rich,  sympathetic  voice 
he  would  read  some  racy  anecdote  of  south- 
ern life,  something  that  told  in  dialect  of 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  some  old  colored 
aunty,  and  his  voice  would  break  with 
laughter,  even  while  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

I  know  that  he  believed  with  old  Mr. 
Weller  that  women  are  "  rum  creeturs,"  and 
that  much  of  his  stony  impassiveness  of 
manner  was  the  result  of  listening  to  the 
experiences  of  women  writers. 

"  If  they  only  zvonld  attend  to  business," 
he  would  say,  despairingly;  "  but  they  come 
in  here  with  a  manuscript,  sit  down  in  that 
rocking-chair,  and  tell  me  their  whole  family 
histories,  and  when  at  last  they  do  go  they 


40  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

always  leave  an  umbrella  or  a  satchel  to 
bring  them  back  again.  And  the  woman 
who  has  never  written  a  line  expects  as 
much  compensation  for  her  first  attempt  as 
if  she  were  a  professional  writer.  I  advised 
one  disappointed  aspirant  for  literary  honors 
to  compare  her  work  with  that  of  authors 
whom  she  wished  to  emulate  and  see  for 
herself  what  it  lacked.  Asked  to  mention  a 
special  author  I  quoted  George  Eliot.  In 
a  week  she  returned  triumphant  to  tell  me 
that  her  friends  considered  her  a  much  better 
writer  than  '  Mr.  Eliot.'  " 

I  have  said  that  this  particular  editor  did 
not  burden  himself  with  the  drudgery  of  his 
profession.  But  he  wrote  many  a  painstaken 
letter  filled  with  words  of  cheer  an.d  encour- 
agement to  those  whose  ardor  he  had  damp- 
ened with  rejected  manuscript.  He  extended 
a  helping  hand  to  many  a  weak,  faltering 
brother  losing  heart  in  the  hour  of  adversity. 
And  when  a  man  went  to  him  with  weak 
complaint  that  he  had  been  sacrificed  to  a 
woman's  heartless  frivolity  he  coolly  said, 
"  What  of  it  ?  Many  women  have  been 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  41 

sacrificed  to  man's  treachery.  Why  should 
you  complain  ?  " 

He  did  not  summon  his  employes  to  him 
when  he  needed  them,  but  went  to  them. 
So  upon  this  occasion,  when  he  entered  the 
room  where  the  literary  editor  had  his  desk, 
the  two  persons  seated  there  looked  up  and 
waited  his  pleasure.  He  carried  with  him  a 
small  flat  package  of  manuscript  and  a  letter. 

"Where  is  Mr.  Harrington,  Rob?"  he 
asked,  approaching  a  particularly  bright, 
handsome  young  fellow  seated  at  a  desk. 

"  In  the  composing-room,  sir." 

"  I  have  a  letter  here  I  wish  him  to 
answer,  and  this  manuscript  is  to  be  re- 
turned." 

A  blase  old-young  man,  with  a  rose  in  his 
button-hole,  looked  up  and  said,  with  a  sneer: 

"  Some  sweet  girl-graduate  in  her  golden 
hair,  sending  her  class  essay?  " 

"  Cynicism,  like  smoking,  not  allowed 
here,  Howland,"  answered  the  editor-in-chief. 
Howland  was  a  valuable  man  on  the  paper 
and  his  sneers  were  .tolerated.  "  Rob,  ask 
Mr.  Harrington  to  answer  this  so  that  it 


42  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

will  go  out  to-night.  He  will  find  a  few 
suggestions  jotted  down." 

He  laid  the  letter  on  Rob's  desk  and  re- 
turned to  his  own  room.  Then  he  dis- 
missed the  matter  from  his  thoughts. 

Yet  upon  that  letter  hung  very  impor- 
tant interests. 

"  Is  it  the  usual  scrawl  ?  "  inquired  How- 
land,  with  his  accustomed  sneer.  "  Does 
it  have  yearnings  after  the  illimitable  and 
divings  after  the  unfathomable  ?  Have  her 
friends  insisted  that  she  has  genius,  etc.? 
Tell  her,  Rob,  that  '  the  irony  of  fate  spares 
not  one  shining  mark.'" 

"  It  is  rather  peculiar  hand-writing,"  re- 
marked Rob,  taking  up  the  manuscript. 
"  Poor  young  thing — for  I  know  she  is 
young — it  is  too  bad  to  fill  her  soul  with 
a  divine  despair.  Howland,  what  will  you 
wager  that  she  is  not  both  young  and 
fair?" 

"  Nothing !  '  What  care  I  how  fair  she  be, 
if  she  be  not  fair  to  me.'  I  have  heard 
that  original  sentiment  before,  I  imagine." 

"  Yes,"  said  Rob,  "  it  was  marked  origi- 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  43 

nal  in  the  book  you  took  it  from,  like  the 
boy's  poetry.  Now  listen  to  this,  How- 
land.  It  is  rather  pensive,  isn't  it  ? 

"  'Just  a  little  nearer  to  the  barrier  that  is  drawn 
Twixt  the  darkness  and  the  daylight,  beyond  the  pearl- 
ing dawn. 

Just  a  little  farther  from  earth's  worries  and  its  frets 
To  the  land  that  has  no  darkness,  the  sun  that  never 
sets."' 

"  Nothing  but  rhyme — void  and  meaning- 
less." said  Rowland,  tipping  back  his  chair 
and  elevating  his  feet  on  the  desk.  "  It's 
all  sentimental  slop." 

"  No ;  it's  what  might  be  called  heav- 
enly slop,"  remarked  Rob,  briefly. 

These  terms  are  native  to  the  editorial 
room,  and  compose  the  technical  language 
of  the  fraternity  who  would  irreverently 
call  one  of  Tennyson's  masterpieces  "  idi- 
otic drivel"  if  it  was  set  up  in  the  estab- 
lishment. 

"  All  rot  and  stuff,"  continued  Mr.  How- 
land,  "  I  would  just  tell  the  poor  thing  so 
and  put  her  out  of  her  misery.  Here  is  a 
conundrum  :  Why  are  the  verses  of  poor 
poets  always  lame?" 


44  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  I  suppose  you  expect  me  to  say  be- 
cause they  have  imperfect  feet,"  answered 
Rob,  quickly.  "  Try  something  harder. 
Here  comes  Mr.  Harrington,  just  in  time 
to  take  this  off  my  hands." 

The  man  who  entered  was  greeted  with 
respect.  The  blas£  young  man  took  his 
feet  off  the  desk  and  resumed  work.  The 
youngster,  Rob,  looked  up  and  smiled.  He 
was  a  favorite  with  the  literary  editor,  and 
he  knew  it. 

"A  letter  for  you  to  answer,  Mr.  Har- 
rington," he  said,  and  laid  it  on  his  desk. 

"I  have  not  the  time,  Rob.  What  is  it? 
A  woman's  letter  and  manuscript,  no  doubt. 
Has  a  brute  of  a  husband,  poor  thing,  and 
wants  to  earn  more  money.  Probably  she 
is  expecting  to  realize  a  sum  by  this  time 
that  will  pay  off  the  mortgage  on  her 
house  and  something  over.  Just  tell  her 
that  her  work  is  more  suited  to  a  literary 
magazine  than  to  a  daily  paper,  etc." 

Rob  laughed  at  the  volubility  of  his  supe- 
rior officer,  who  all  this  time  was  struggling 
out  of  his  office  blouse  into  his  street  coat. 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  45 

"  I  have  my  orders  in  marginal  notes," 
he  said.  "  The  chief  gave  it  to  me  be- 
cause you  were  not  at  your  post,  sir. 
Now,  Mr.  Harrington,  what  name  shall  I 
sign  ?  You  know  it  should  be  your  handi- 
work." 

"  Let  me  off  this  time.  Sign  any.  name 
you  please, — mine,  per  R.  W.,  if  you  choose. 
What  does  it  matter?" 

"  But  it  might  be  quite  important,"  said 
Rob,  laughing.  "This  is  a  young  lady — 
a  southern  girl — and  if  she  should  not  like 
the  subject-matter  she  may  send  her  big 
brother  with  a  challenge,  and  what  would 
poor  Rob  do  then,  oh,  then?" 

"Stop  that  chattering,"  snarled  Rowland, 
"and  send  that  slush  off  out  of  the  way.  If 
I  had  a  daughter  or  sister  who  persisted  in 
writing  such  trash  and  sending  it  to  the 
newspapers  I  would  wring  her  neck — yes — 
cheerfully." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  Mr.  Rowland,  not  in  the 
least;  and  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  the 
girl,  too,  come  to  think  of  it." 

"  Follow  instructions,  Rob,"  said  Mr.  Har- 


46  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

rington,  pleasantly.  "That  is  a  very  sin- 
gular chirography,"  he  added,  studying  it  a 
moment. 

"  The  instructions  are  that  the  writer  is 
to  try  again." 

"  Then  there  must  be  a  mustard-seed  of 
merit  in  it,"  answered  Mr.  Harrington,  tak- 
ing his  hat.  "  I  am  going  out  for  a  short 
walk,  Rob.  My  brain  is  cobwebby  to-day,  I 
think." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Harrington,  I  will  write  the 
letter,"  said  Rob,  cheerfully;  "  and  if  you  will 
come  down  to  my  room  to-night  I'll  make 
you  one  of  mother's  hot  lemonades.  They're 
tip-top  for  brain  cobwebs." 

Edgar  Harrington  went  out,  unconscious 
that  he  was  in  any  manner  aiding  and  abet- 
ting destiny  in  forming  some  of  her  strange 
and  incongruous  plans,  which,  like  the  wires 
of  telegraphy,  cross  and  recross,  bearing  on 
the  unseen  current  of  conflicting  lives.  He 
walked  rapidly  along  with  no  definite  aim 
or  object  save  to  fly  from  himself.  A  look 
of  unsatisfied  longing  told  of  a  heart  that 
was  at  war  with  itself. 


A   LITERARY   WORKSHOP.  47 

"A  millstone  and  the  human  heart  are  driven  ever  round. 
If  they  have  nothing  else  to  grind  they  must  themselves 
be  ground." 

This  grinding  of  the  heart  had  prematurely 
whitened  the  brown  curling  locks,  and  drawn 
tense  lines  about  the  decisive  mouth,  and 
given  a  care-worn  look  to  a  rather  handsome 
face,  which  was  marred  by  a  shadow  of  discon- 
tent, and,  to  tell  the  truth,  bore  that  most 
legible  handwriting  of  the  devil,  the  seal  and 
stamp  of  dissipation. 

Not  present  dissipation.  It  is  the  story  of 
the  past  that  is  always  written  upon  the  tell- 
tale features.  Nature  avenges  herself  for 
the  wrongs  put  upon  her  by  telling  her  whole 
story  to  the  world  so  that  he  who  runs  may 
read.  If,  as  I  strongly  suspect,  it  was  a  wom- 
an's hand  that  first  led  Edgar  Harrington 
astray,  then  as  a  compensating  power  it  was 
a  woman's  hand  that  saved  him.  He  had 
climbed  to  the  dizzy  and  unreal  heights  of 
pleasure,  where  a  man  looking  into  the  awful 
abysses  loses  his  head.  As  he  was  going 
over  the  precipice  a  strong,  brave  hand  was 
reached  out  to  him,  and  he  was  saved. 


CHAPTER   III. 

CLYFFE  HOUSE. 

Two  girls  were  chatting  together  in  one  of 
the  upper  rooms  of  an  old  southern  home — 
a  front  room  that  opened  on  a  latticed  ver- 
anda, overrun  with  purple  wisteria  and  Gloire 
Dijon  roses.  The  house  was  old  and  much 
dilapidated,  but  with  its  stately  air  impos- 
ing and  grand,  even  in  decay,  as  one  which 
had  seen  better  days.  It  would  be  hard  to 
determine  the  architectural  age  to  which  it 
belonged  under  the  modern  patches  that 
had  been  inflicted  upon  it,  but  it  really  was 
an  old  colonial  mansion,  and  its  first  owners 
boasted  of  Huguenot  descent.  It  was  a 
traditional  record  that  not  one  member  of 
the  family  had  ever  earned  a  dollar  or 
worked  a  day.  General  Washington  had 
been  entertained  there  with  his  liveried  serv- 
ants and  emblazoned  coach,  and  wine  had 
48 


CLYFFE   HOUSE.  49 

run  as  freely  as  water.  In  the  dining-hall, 
of  feudal  proportions,  great  companies 
feasted  until  conviviality  had  drowned  rea- 
son. Time  had  been  as  nothing  to  those 
people.  Like  the  loyal  people  of  Scotland 
who  stopped  their  clocks  when  Queen  Eliz- 
abeth visited  them,  they  did  not  wish  to  be 
reminded  of  its  flight.  But  those  good  old 
days  were  gone.  Successive  generations 
became  poorer  and  weaker.  Clyffe  House 
was  no  longer  a  hospitable  mansion  filled 
with  revelers,  but  a  broken-down,  mort- 
gaged homestead,  with  nothing  pertaining 
to  it  but  an  impoverished  family  and  an 
aristocratic  record.  The  master  of  the 
house  failed  to  rise  one  morning,  and  was 
found  dead,  his  hand  still  grasping  the  only 
sentinel  that  stood  by  his  lonely  death-bed, 
his  favorite  decanter.  His  familiar  and 
boon  companion,  when  he  heard  of  his  com- 
rade's death,  blew  out  his  feeble  brains,  and 
the  queenly  daughter,  who  was  the  toast  of 
the  county  and  the  last  of  her  race,  se- 
cluded herself  in  the  shut-up  house,  which 
was  the  sole  mausoleum  of  a  grand  family. 


50  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY, 

In  a  year  she  made  a  singular  marriage.  It 
was  all  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost. 
There  had  been  in  her  father's  employ  a 
young  law-student,  who  had  gone  to  the 
sunny  south  on  account  of  a  threatened  dif- 
ficulty of  the  lungs.  Marie  Clyffe  had 
refused  some  brilliant  offers.  Money  was  to 
her  as  dross.  She  had  lived  a  brief  era  of 
splendor,  through  her  beauty  and  position, 
and  society  might  well  be  astonished  when 
she  married  the  poor  law-student  and 
attempted  to  resume  her  sway  as  its  queen. 
The  attempt  was  a  failure.  The  law-student 
was  given  the  empty  title  of  judge  ere  he 
had  ever  pleaded  a  case.  He  tried  to  fill  a 
dead  man's  shoes.  Horse  races  and  politics 
ruined  him  socially  and  financially.  He 
drank  himself  into  a  sodden  state  of  degra- 
dation. His  wife,  a  peevish,  faded  beauty, 
died  and  left  him  two  little  girls,  as  wild 
and  shy  as  they  were  pretty.  The  war  had 
swept  away  their  servants,  of  whom  they 
possessed  a  faithful  retinue.  His  weak 
lungs  had  prevented  the  judge  from  serving 
in  the  Union  army  if  he  had  been  inclined 


CLYFFE   HOUSE.  51 

to,  which  he  was  not.  He  loved  his 
country,  but  he  loved  his  own  safety  and 
comfort  better,  and  contrived  to  stay  peace- 
ably at  home  while  opposing  factions  set- 
tled the  nation's  difficulty  with  shot  and 
shell.  With  his  two  girls,  growing  up  like 
weeds,  and  one  old  servant  to  act  as  steward 
and  housekeeper,  the  judge  kept  house  in 
the  old  mansion,  and  existed  after  a  fashion. 
He  arbitrated  a  little,  drank  a  good  deal, 
and  went  shambling  about,  red-nosed  and 
incoherent,  but  enjoying  a  certain  distinc- 
tion as  the  widower  of  the  late  handsome 
Miss  Clyffe.  The  old  bell-crowned  hat  and 
long  white-seamed  coat  were  familiar  to  the 
eyes  of  all  Sparta.  Richard  Marsden  in 
more  prosperous  circumstances  would  have 
been  a  less  prominent  man  than  he  was  on 
this  border-land  of  starvation.  Though  not 
an -old  man  the  judge  was  bent  and  walked 
with  a  cane,  but  his  hair  and  whiskers  were 
still  a  natural,  glossy  black.  He  had  never 
worried  enough  to  turn  them  white  prema- 
turely. His  long,  white  hands  were  as  fine 
as  any  lady's,  and  his  voice  had  a  charm 


52  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

that  fascinated  those  who  heard  it.  A 
gentle  drawl  had  tempered  his  northern 
intonation  and  given  it  a  musical  quality 
that  harmonized  well  with  the  melodious 
dialect  of  the  south,  but  left  it  free  from 
the  blemishes  of  local  pronunciation.  He 
could  not  have  a  higher  compliment 
than  to  be  told,  as  he  often  was :  "  I 
thoth'  foh  suah,  Jedge,  you  was  bawn  in 
the  south." 

With  all  his  apparent  content  there 
rankled  in  the  heart  of  Richard  Marsden  an 
unhealed  wound.  In  his  early  youth  he  had 
been  fondly  attached  to  a  beautiful  girl 
whom  he  had  left  in  his  northern  home. 
They  were  to  be  married  as  soon  as  the 
young  lady  had  finished  her  school  days 
and  he  had  established  himself  in  a  comfort- 
able law  business.  He  had  been  true  to  his 
love,  and  not  even-  the  blandishment  of 
ex-Governor  Clyffe's  beautiful  daughter  had 
caused  him  to  swerve  in  his  devotion  to  the 
absent.  No ;  it  was  a  letter  from  the  girl 
herself,  renouncing  him  in  curt  terms  and 
pronouncing  her  decision  final,  that  changed 


CLYFFE   HOUSE.  53 

his  whole  life.  He  wrote  to  her  begging  her 
to  tell  him  why  she  cast  him  off,  and  re- 
ceived a  second  and  more  determined 
refusal,  which  he  was  compelled  to  accept  as 
final.  In  three  weeks  he  was  the  husband 
of  Marie  Clyffe.  But  he  brooded  over  his 
disappointment,  and  became  morose  and 
taciturn.  His  wife  could  not  complain,  for 
she  alone  held  the  key  to  his  secret.  All 
Aveak  characters  have  one  obstinate  charac- 
teristic. Richard  Marsden  had  loved  with 
all  the  force  of  his  nature.  He  might  have 
bartered  his  integrity  to  defend  that  love, 
but  he  would  not  relinquish  it.  He  gave  an 
empty,  loveless  heart  to  the  fair  southern 
woman,  but  he  made  her  a  tolerable  hus- 
band, defending  his  secret  at  all  cost,  and 
taking  care  that  she  should  never  know  that 
he  married  her  from  pique.  That  he  was 
fooled,  duped  and  betrayed  never  occurred 
to  him. 

The  unloved  wife  died,  and  among  some 
relics  of  dried  flowers  and  yellow  laces 
Richard  Marsden  found  the  form  of  a  letter 
— another  and  another — copies,  re-written 


54         HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

and  connected,  and  finally  complete.  She 
had  not  even  cared  to  destroy  the  evidences 
of  her  guilt,  knowing  that  while  she  lived 
they  were  safe,  and  when  she  was  dead  she 
could  not  be  punished.  Then  Richard  Mars- 
den  took  a  contemptible  revenge.  He  let 
her  children  grow  up  neglected  and  uncared 
for,  with  never  a  look  or  word  of  love  from 
him.  He  shut  himself  up  with  a  friend 
after  his  own  heart  and  drank  as  long  as 
the  liquor  could  be  obtained.  The  only 
friends  the  children  had  was  the  old  colored 
mammy,  who  had  been  their  mother's  nurse, 
and  the  drunken  Major,  who  in  the  days  of 
her  girlhood  had  been  their  mother's  lover. 
There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  devo- 
tion of  these  two  to  the  ruined  fortunes  of 
the  children.  Major  Krum,  the  boon  com- 
panion, had  prevailed  upon  the  father  to 
send  the  eldest  girl,  Marcia,  to  a  convent  for 
school  instruction.  She  remained  there  one 
year,  at  the  end  of  which  time  she  returned 
home  to  recover  from  a  strange  illness,  in- 
duced by  o.ver-study,  romanticism,  a  fervor 
of  religious  belief,  and  a  severe  attack  of 


CLYFFE   HOUSE.  55 

insomnia.  Cherry,  the  youngest  sister, 
had  pined  for  her  companion,  and  was  re- 
joiced to  have  her  back  with  her ;  but  the 
child  scarcely  recognized  in  this  emaciated 
being,  with  fixed  and  glassy  eyes,  the 
Marcia  of  the  old  days  when  they  had 
romped  the  fields  together.  Mammy,  dis- 
tressed and  fearful,  at  once  commenced  a 
vigorous  task  of  practical  nursing,  but  noth- 
ing could  rouse  the  sick  girl  from  the 
lethargy  which  had  overtaken  her.  There 
were  days  in  which  she  seemed  to  resemble 
her  former  self,  but  much  of  the  time  was 
passed  in  a  mental  stupor  that  was  as 
singular  as  it  was  incurable.  The  one  doc-r 
tor  at  Sparta  was  called  in  by  the  Major, 
but  he  could  do  her  no  good.  So  it  came  to 
be  an  established  fact  that  she  was  an  inva- 
lid, and  Mammy  and  the  Major  redoubled 
their  attention  and  kindness.  Cherry  was 
as  devoted  as  they.  Wild  and  shy  as  a 
half-breed,  totally  ignorant,  she  continued 
to  run  about  in  her  picturesque  rags  and 
grew  lovelier  every  year.  Then  the  Judge 
raised  a  little  money,  bought  himself  a  new 


56  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

suit  of  clothes,  and  to  the  astonishment  of 
everybody  he  went  on  a  visit  to  his  old 
home  in  the  north,  and  remained  there 
several  months. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  MAJE." 

Major  Krum  looked  after  his  friend's 
family  while  he  was  absent.  That  is,  he 
kept  actual  starvation  from  the  door  by 
the  use  of  the  Judge's  hounds  and  gun, 
and  as  they  were  accustomed  to  a  game 
diet,  they  had  enough  to  eat.  Mrs.  Ma- 
deira, the  rector's  excellent  wife,  who  had 
long  tried  to  befriend  the  two  girls,  called 
often,  but  Marcia  was  usually  asleep  and 
Cherry  could  not  be  found.  At  last  the 
Major  received  a  letter  from  the  Judge. 
He  read  it  and  immediately  went  out  and 
got  very  drunk.  Then,  charged  with  a  fic- 
titious courage,  he  set  out  on  a  ziz-zag  tour 
to  Clyffe  House. 

It  was  a  perfect  day.     Cherry  sat  framed 

in  the  purple  wisterias  balancing  herself  on 

the  sill  of  the  open  window  of  her  sister's 

sick-room.    A  man's  hat,  crushed  out  of  all 

57 


58  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

shape,  was  perched  on  her  sunny  curls. 
She  was  whistling  defiantly  to  a  saucy 
mocker  in  a  tree  beneath.  Then  she  de- 
scried the  Major  and  waved  her  old  hat  in 
the  air. 

"  There's  Maje'  comin',  Marsh,  and  he's 
jes'  as  reely  as  he  kin  be.  He  ain't  bin 
as  bad  sence  the  Jedge  went  up  norf.  He's 
got  a  letter,  Marsh.  Kin  you  see  him? 
Mebbe  it's  for  you.  I'm  goin'  to  git  it," 
and  the  young  hoyden  escaped  by  the 
window,  sliding  down  the  worm-eaten  pil- 
lar of  the  old  veranda  with  a  force  that 
made  it  shake. 

The  Major  was  not  so  tipsy  but  that  he 
knew  what  he  was  doing.  He  held  the  let- 
ter up  over  his  head  and  said,  unsteadily  : 

"  Lemme  alone !  I've  got  bad  news  an' 
I'm  going  to  give  it  to  Miss  Marcia  my- 
self— my-self — hear  that — my-s-e-1-f ! " 

"  Bad  noos !  'Taint  nuther.  I  wasn't 
brung  up  in  the  woods  to  be  scart  by  a 
owl,"  responded  Cherry. 

"  Who — who  are  you  a  talkin'  to,  Miss 
Impudence  ? "  inquired  the  Major  with 


MAJE.  59 

drunken  gravity.  "Who  —  who  do  you 
'spose  I  am?  Mebbe  I'm  not  th'  officer  'n 
command — hey  !  I've  got  bad  news — b-a-d 
n-e-w-s  ! ' ' 

"  Popsey  dead?"  inquired  the  young  lady 
coolly. 

"Didn't  I  say  bad  news — hey?  now  go 
— proceed — advance — halt — fire  !  No  !  no! 
I  mean  you  go  and  ask  Miss — Miss — Marcia 
if  she  will  see  yours  truly  this  s'morn'." 

Cherry  made  another  ineffectual  snatch 
at  the  letter,  then  proceeded  coolly  to  the 
house  at  a  pace  to  suit  herself.  The  Ma- 
jor sat  down  on  the  horse-block,  pulled  out 
a  red  bandana  handkerchief  and  mopped 
his  forehead.  The  world  was  going  round 
very  fast.  He  tried  to  reach  the  trunk  of 
a  catalpa  tree  growing  near  and  nearly  lost 
his  balance.  The  picture  he  presented  was 
not  an  agreeable  one,  albeit  it  presented 
the  ridiculous  side  of  the  vice  he  was  a 
slave  to.  In  spite  of  his  degradation  there 
was  a  sort  of  gentle  dignity  about  the 
man.  The  hounds  came  nosing  about  him, 
and  kissed  his  unshaven  cheeks  with  the 


60  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

mute  affection  the  dog  gives  to  a  trusted 
friend.  Cherry  hailed  him  from  the  window. 

"  Come  up,"  she  called;  "  Marsh  says  you 
may  ef  you  'have  yourself !  " 

The  Major  rose  solemnly,  and  lifting  his 
feet  very  high  and  putting  them  down  as 
if  they  were  weighted,  entered  the  house. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  halted  and 
leaned  confidingly  on  the  balusters.  Then 
he  tenderly  embraced  the  newel  post.  Fin- 
ally he  made  an  heroic  attempt  and  walked 
unsteadily,  up  the  stairs.  At  the  door  of 
the  front  room  he  stopped  and  consulted 
the  letter. 

"  Come  in,  Major ! "  called  a  plaintive 
voice.  "  Cherry  said  you  had  a  letter  for 
me." 

"  'Mornin',  Miss  Marcia,"  the  Major  sa- 
luted in  military  style.  "  'Mornin' — yes,  I 
have  a  letter  to  read  to  you,  and  it's  got 
bad  news,  but  I  ain't  in  any  hurry  to  tell  it 
as  I  know  of." 

"  Is  the — is  papa — anything  happened  to 
him  ?  "  asked  the  sick  girl,  without  any 
apparent  agitation.  She  was  sallow  and 


MAJE.  61 

spiritless  looking,  and  wrapped  in  an  old 
cashmere  robe  de  chambre,  of  a  palm-leaf 
pattern,  belonging  to  a  past  generation, 
looked  anything  but  pretty  or  graceful  in 
her  capacity  of  invalid.  But  to  the  Major's 
eyes  she  was  the  fairest  woman  that  ever 
the  sun  shone  on — the  fairest  but  one — and 
she  was  dead. 

"  Bad  news  '11  keep  ;  it's  only  good  news 
that  can't  be  told  too  soon.  No,  your 
feyher  isn't  dead,  he  is — he  is — what  are  you 
making  faces  at,  Cherry?"  and  the  Major 
frowned  with  mock  severity. 

"  You,"  said  Cherry.  "  You  look  so  much 
like  a  great  big  goose,  Maje.  Never  mind 
the  bad  news,  tell  us  a  story,  Maje." 

"Your  feyher's  been " 

"  Oh,  nevah  mind  the  Jedge.  We  doan 
care  nothun  'bout  him.  Tell  us  something 
funny,"  piped  Cherry. 

"  I've  got  to  break  the  news  gently. 
Danged  ef  I  don't  wish  it  was  over,"  mut- 
tered the  Major,  who  was  suddenly  sobered. 
"  Ever  hear  of  the  Widder  Kelly  ?  "  he  asked 
turning  to  Cherry. 


62  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  Nevah — was  she  a  witch  ?  " 

"  Major,  tell  me  what  you  came  to  say  ! " 
commanded  the  sick  girl. 

"One  moment.  Miss  Marcia.  I  must 
break  the  news  gently.  There  was  a  Mr. 
Kelly  employed  upon  a  railroad  in  this 
section  once,  and  he  was  run  over  by  a 
hand-car  and  killed,  and  one  of  the  men  was 
sent  up  to  his  house  to  break  the  news  to 
his  wife. 

" '  Be  sure  and  tell  her  gently,'  said  the 
superintendent. 

"  So  the  man  went  on,  and  when  he  came 
to  the  shanty  where  Mrs.  Kelly  was  he  gave 
a  great  knock  on  the  door,  and  it  was 
opened  by  the  woman  herself. 

" '  Does  the  widow  Kelly  live  here  ?  '  he 
asked,  in  a  kind  of  faint  voice. 

"  '  Faith,  she  doesn't,'  says  the  woman. 

"'You  lie  !' roars  the  man;  'you're  the 
widow  Kelly  yourself,  and  they're  bringin' 
poor  Mike's  body  home  on  a  board '  ;  and 
your  father,  the  Jedge,  has  just  gone  and 
got  married  up  norf,  and  he's  bringin'  your 
stepmother  home  ! " 


MAJE.  63 

"  Stepmother !  "  screamed  Cherry. 

"  Stepmother !  "  wailed  Marcia. 

"  I  said  stepmother,"  answered  the  Major. 
"  Know  it's  an  ugly  word,  but  'taint  half  as 
ugly  as  she'll  be,  or  I  lose  my  guess." 

"  I'll  run  away ! "  threatened  Cherry. 
"  She  ain't  nevah  goin'  to  be  my  mother — 
hateful  old  thing !" 

"What  will  become  of  me?"  asked 
Marcia,  as  she  turned  pale  and  rigid,  and 
sunk  into  one  of  her  strange  spells,  while 
Cherry  screamed  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

"  Wha's  de  mattah,  honey  bird  ?  Wha 
foh  your  done  come  up  heah,  Majah  Krum, 
and  raise  all  dis  heah  row  ?  Dah,  Miss 
Cherry,  you  done  drownded  yoh  poh  sistah 
wid  all  dat  campfire.  I  declah  I  nevah  saw 
no  sich  folks  nohow.  Ise  clean  descouraged, 
I  is." 

"You'll  have  a  new  missus  to-morrow, 
Mammy,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  trifle  of 
malice. 

"Wha  he  done  mean,  honey?"  asked  the 
old  woman,  rolling  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,"  screamed  Cherry,  "  Pop's  got  a  new 


64  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

mother  for  us  all.  She'll  be  your  stepmother, 
too,  Mammy;  won't  she,  Marsh?" 

"  Done  gwine  ter  put  anoder  wife  in 
bressed  Miss  Marie's  shoes  and  make  her 
missus  heah.  Oh,  Massa  Clyffe !  Massa 
Clyffe  !  I  wuz  neber  gwine  to  lebe  de  ole 
place  wha  I  raised  my  missus  and  de  chillun, 
an'  wha  my  ole  man  died,  and  my  leetle  Pete, 
and  now  Ise  got  to  be  turned  out  ter  die. 
Oh,  de  good  Lawd  fotch  me  home  safe  inter 
kingdom  come  afore  de  strange  woman  sets 
her  foot  inter  dis  heah  house !  Oh,  de 
bressed  Lawd  !  I  done  can't  stan'  it." 

"  She  will  beat  me,"  howled  Cherry. 
"  Beulah  St.  John  had  a  stepmother,  and 
she  pulled  Beulah's  hair  and  toted  her  out 
of  the  house  with  a  broom." 

Marcia  roused  a  little  from  her  dazed 
state,  and  looked  at  them  all  with  her 
sleepy,  indolent  eyes,  th'at  had  an  inde- 
scribable quality  in  their  dark  splendor, 
as  if  the  eyes  of  a  snake  were  looking 
through  the  perfect  orbs  of  a  woman. 

"  He  can  bring  her  here,"  she  said,  slowly, 
"and  put  her  in  dear  mamma's  place,  but  she. 


MAJE.  65 

will  be  nothing  to  us  but  an  enemy.  We 
will  never  call  her  by  the  precious  name  of 
mother." 

"  Stepmother,"  cried  Cherry,  "  horrid, 
cross  old  thing,  I  hate  yer,"  and  she 
clinched  her  hands  and  made  faces  at  an 
imaginary  foe. 

"  I'm  goin',"  said  the  Major.  After  con- 
juring up  this  scene  he  shrunk  abashed,  and 
his  better  self  recovered  its  balance  at  the 
spirit  he  had  raised.  '•  Oh,  I  nearly  forgot. 
Here's  a  package  and  a  letter  for  you  come 
this  mornin'  in  the  northern  mail.  Didn't 
know  you  had  any  gentlemen  correspond- 
ents, Miss  Marcia." 

A  warm  blush  lit  up  the  sallow  face  of 
the  sick  girl.  Its  rosy  glow  suffused  even 
the  pale  hand  she  extended  for  the  letter. 
It  was  a  fine,  slim  hand  with  delicate  fin- 
gers, and  as  the  Major  extended  the  letter 
he  took  the  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips 
with  respectful  gallantry.  The  sick  girl 
drew  it  away  petulantly. 

"  Oh !"  mocked  the  undaunted  Cherry, 
"  Pass  'em  round,  Maje.  Here's  mine,"  and 


66          HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

she  held  out  a  chubby  fist  that  was  as 
pink  and  rosy  as  her  cheeks. 

The  Major  took  her  at  her  word,  and  was 
about  to  do  her  bidding  when  she  dex- 
trously  gave  his  cheek  a  resounding  blow 
with  her  saucy  knuckles. 

"  Gad  ! "  said  the  Major,  angrily.  "  I 
won't  mind  seeing  that  young  tiger  tamed. 
I  reckon  a  stepmother  that  has  anything 
to  do  with  you  will  suffer  enough.'1 

"Good-by,  Maje,"  chirupped  the  girl,  as 
he  passed  out.  "  Come  agen  when  you 
can't  stay  s'long." 

After  he  was  gone  Cherry  framed  herself 
in  the  window  in  a  serene  state  of  ani- 
mal content.  A  red-bird  was  singing  on  the 
roof  above  her,  and  the  low  murmur  of 
a  lazy  mocking-bird  issued  from  the  tree 
near.  She  was  very  pretty  in  her  wooden 
frame,  with  a  song  that  answered  to  the 
bird  bubbling  on  her  lips.  Her  scrappy 
dress  was  of  some  by-gone  stuff  that  might 
have  been  used  once  for  curtains;  it  gave 
the  child  a  quaint,  bizarre  effect,  but  har- 
monized with  the  roses  and  lilies  of  her 


MAJE.  67 

complexion ;  her  bare,  round  arms  clasped 
above  her  head  were  as  perfect  in  shape 
and  color  as  mortal  flesh  and  blood  could 
well  be;  health  and  exercise  gave  her  a 
radiant  bloom.  She  had  learned  early  to 
defend  herself  against  aggressions,  and  was 
full  of  rude  courage.  Mammy,  who  sat  de- 
vouring her  with  loving  eyes,  thought  that 
she  was  the  image  of  her  dead  mother, 
and  stifled  a  sob  at  the  desecration  of 
that  mother's  memory.  Cherry  felt  the 
magnetism  of  the  look  and  turned,  her 
saucy  lips  curled  in  scorn. 

"  You  needn't  watch  this  child,"  she  said, 
pertly.  "  I  kin  take  care  of  my  own  self, 
Mammy  Monnia.  Jest  you  go  and  cook  a 
lot  of  vittles  for  the  folks  comin'." 

"  Ise  gwine  ter  dew  dat  enyhow,  Miss 
Cherry,"  said  the  old  woman,  meekly.  "  Ise 
willin'  to  take  orders  from  my  blessed  chillen 
as  Missus  gim  me  when  she  died ;  but  no 
strange  woman  eber  goin'  to  rule  ole 
Mammy.  I  done  go  off  somewhar  jes'  to 
lib  all  alone  by  myself." 

In  a  moment  the  impulsive  Cherry  was  in 


68  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

the  old  woman's  lap,  with  her  two  lovely 
arms  around  her  neck. 

"  You  jest  dare  to  go  away  !  "  she  cried, 
"  I'll  send  the  dogs  after  you  in  right  smart 
time." 

Mammy  laughed.  "  Mebby,  yer  tinks  de 
houns  gwine  to  tear  dis  ole  carcass  ?  Why, 
chile,  I  brung  up  ebery  one  of  dem  dogs 
jes'  like  it  was  a  baby!  dey  aint  no  good  to 
hunt  my  old  tracks,  dem  dogs  isn't ! " 

Marcia  was  reading  her  letter.  Her  face 
was  changed;  it  fairly  radiated  with  ex- 
citement. 

"Is't  good   noos?"   asked  Cherry. 

"  Yes !  they  have  sent  my  poems  back. 
One  of  the  editors  of  the  Day  Star  writes 
such  a  nice  letter ;  he  says  my  poetry  is  too 
good  for  a  daily  paper — more  suitable  for 
a  magazine  or  weekly,  so  he  returns  it  with 
thanks,  but  I  am  to  try  again." 

"Coin'  to  rite  a  story,  Marsh?" 

"  Not  exactly  a  story,  but  a  sketch — some- 
thing short — for  people  to  laugh  or  cry  over. 
The  editor's  name  is  Edgar  Harrington,  and 
he  writes  such  a  kind  letter.  Oh  Cherry, 


MAJE.  69 

if  I  can  only  put  into  words  the  dreams  that 
come  into  my  head  while  I  am  lying  here ! 
Such  beautiful  visions  as  I  have.  It  would 
make  life  a  different  thing  to  have  such  an 
interest." 

"  And  you  shall  tell  me  all  about  'em, 
every  word,  before  you  send  them,  cos  I 
can't  read  them  if  you  do  get  them  printed 
out." 

"  Poor  child,"  said  Marcia,  tenderly. 
"  Why  won't  you  go  to  school,  Cherry, 
and  learn  something?" 

"  Don't  want  ter,"  piped  Cherry.  "  Do 
the  birds  go  to  school;  or  the  butterflies? 
I  hate  school.  I  don't  want  to  know 
nothin'." 

"  And  I'm  sure  you  have  your  wish," 
said  her  sister,  with  some  asperity.  "  You 
talk  just  as  Mammy  does.  It  isn't  nice  to 
be  ignorant,  Cherry.  People  will  despise 
you." 

"  Let  'em,"  retorted  Cherry ;  "  I  won't 
talk  to  'em.  They  like  to  hear  me  sing 
and  see  me  dance.  I  won't  learn;  an'  I 
won't  do  no  work  ef  I  kin  help  it.  I 


70  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

warn't  brung  up  to  be  anything  but  a 
lady!" 

"Brung  up — can't  you  say  brought  up?" 

"  Broughten  up,  then,  ef  it's  enny  better. 
What'd  you  git  by  goin'  to  school,  Marsh, 
a-lyin'  there  on  the  bed  as  white  as 
dough?  But  thar,  honey,  you  needn't 
cry.  I'll  know  somethin'  some  day,  an* 
yer  won't  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"  I'm  not  ashamed  of  you,"  sobbed 
Marcia ;  "  but,  oh,  Cherry,  can't  you  see 
that  we  are  not  like  other  girls.  We  don't 
know  the  things  they  do.  We  have  no 
accomplishments  like  them.  You  are  as 
old  as  Grace  Madeira,  and  she  is  a  young 
lady  in  long  dresses 

"An'  wears  a  hump  on  her  back,  an'  a 
lot  of  false  hair  on  her  head,  and  walks 
this  way,  an'  says  '  I'm  delited  to  see  you' 
to  folks  as  she  despises.  Like  Grace 
Madeira?  I  reckon  I  ain't;  kin  she  shoot 
a  partridge  on  the  wing  or  ride  a  horse 
bare-back?  Didn't  I  take  the  prize  at  the 
archery  shoot — and  not  half  try,  neither. 
I'm  just  a  bang-up  girl,  ef  I  don't  know 


MAJE.  71 

nothin'.  And  I  don't  let  enny  soft  sawney 
of  a  feller  tell  me  no  pack  of  lies.  Here's 
Mammy  with  a  bite.  Woodcock  pie.  I 
shot  that  pair  yesterday  mo'ning.  You'd 
starve  ef  it  warn't  for  your  know-nothin' 
sister." 

"  I  believe  I  should,"  sighed  Marcia, 
wearily.  "  Mammy,  where  did  this  jelly 
come  from?" 

"  Made  it,  honey.  De  Major  he  brung 
de  barberries,  an'  I  jest  squeezed  um  juice 
outen,  an'  biled  it  down  wid  loaf  sugar. 
I  usen  make  it  for  yoh  mamma  jes'  like 
dat." 

The  two  sisters  ate  the  dLaintily  cooked 
meal,  while  Mammy  waited  on  them  with 
the  attentive  familiarity  which  her  position 
justified.  Not  another  word  was  said  of 
the  coming  guest — the  new  mother — and 
mistress.  Marcia  was  silently  brooding  over 
her  letter.  When  the  tray  was  removed 
she  lay  back  among  her  pillows  and  fell 
asleep,  with  it  clasped  firmly  in  her  hand. 
Cherry  not  being  on  the  watch  while  her 
sister  slept,  dropped  out  of  the  window, 


72  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

and  whistling  to  her  favorite  hound  went 
off  for  a  ramble  in  the  fields.  Upon  the 
Major  and  Mammy  devolved  all  the  cere- 
monies of  welcoming  the  bride. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH." 

Judge  Marsden  and  his  new  wife  arrived 
at  their  house  on  the  evening  of  a  bright, 
pleasant  day,  and  alighted  wearily  from  the 
stage  in  which  they  had  finished  the  last 
twenty-five  miles  of  their  journey.  There 
was  no  one  at  the  gate  to  meet  them,  and 
the  house  was  inhospitably  dark  and  still. 
The  house  door  stood  ajar,  however,  and  as 
they  approached  the  figure  of  Major  Krum 
appeared,  carrying,  with  characteristic  un- 
steadiness, a  blazing  paraffine  lamp,  that 
flamed  wildly  in  the  strong  night  breeze. 

"Welcome  home,  Jedge!  Welcome  home, 
Mrs.  Jedg — I  beg  pardon — Mrs.  Marsden. 
My  dear  lady,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you." 

The  Judge  went  through  a  scant  cere- 
mony of  introduction  most  ungraciously. 
He  was  angry  with  the  Major  for  being 
73 


74  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

there,  and  with  Mammy  and  Cherry  for 
not  being  there. 

"  Come  in,  Beatrice,"  he  said,  in  a  kind, 
reassuring  voice,  to  the  beautiful  woman 
who  stood  irresolutely  on  the  threshold — 
our  friend  Beatrice  of  long  ago.  "  It  is 
your  home,  my  dear." 

The  wind,  rising  into  a  gale,  although  the 
night  was  clear,  swept  around  the  house  and 
in  at  the  open  door.  It  extinguished  the 
light  which  the  Major  carried,  and  went 
wailing  up  the  staircase  like  a  human  thing, 
rattling  the  crazy  casements  of  the  old 
house  with  vindictive  force.  At  the  same 
moment  a  sharp,  querulous  voice  was  heard 
to  ask,  complainingly : 

"  Where  does  that  cold  wind  come  from, 
Mammy  ?  " 

And  a  second  voice  responded : 

"  Bress  yoh  heart,  chile,  don't  you  know? 
Habn't  I  done  tell  you  afore  when  it  blow 
dat  way?  Dat  col'  wind,  child,  dat  jes' 
blow  in  den,  am  de  step  mother's  brcf" 

Every  word  struck  with  cruel  distinctness 
on  the  heart  of  the  new  mother.  She,  too, 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.        75 

had  heard  the  foolish  old  saying.  That 
it  could  be  so  wickedly  applied  was  beyond 
belief. 

"  Mammy ! "  called  the  Judge,  angrily, 
"  come  down  here  !  " 

With  much  grumbling  and  a  slow,  un- 
wieldy step,  Mammy  —  fat  and  scant  of 
breath — toiled  down  the  stairs,  lamp  in 
hand,  and  with  surly  respect  greeted  the 
master  of  the  house. 

"  Show  Mrs.  Marsden  to  the  room  you 
have  made  ready  for  her.  Mammy,  this  is 
your  new  mistress,"  said  the  Judge,  who 
then  disappeared  with  the  Major. 

The  front  chamber  was  decked  in  a  most 
singular  manner  for  the  reception  of  a  bride. 
It  had  neither  been  swept  nor  dusted.  A 
tattered  old  silk  quilt  covered  the  great 
four-posted  bed.  The  heavy  curtains  were 
ragged  and  mildewed.  The  portrait  of  a 
beautiful  woman  in  ball  attire  hung  in  a 
tarnished  frame  on  the  wall.  It  was 
wreathed  with  fresh  flowers  and  crape.  The 
new  wife's  heart  sank.  This,  then,  was  her 
welcome  home!  No  one  should  see,  though, 


76      HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

that  she  was  cruelly  hurt,  and  she  turned  to 
Mammy  with  a  smile. 

"  Is  this — was  this  lady  Judge  Marsden's 
first  wife  ?  " 

"  Dat's  my  missus,"  answered  Mammy,  in 
a  sulky  tone. 

"  You  mean  that  she  was  your  mistress," 
answered  Beatrice,  gently. 

"I  nebber  hab  no  oder  if  I  lib  a  tousan' 
years !  "  said  the  old  servant.  "  She  was 
Massa  Clyffe's  only  chile,  an'  I  nussed  her 
when  she  was  a  baby.  Dey  was  powerful 
rich  folkses  den." 

Beatrice  smiled  sadly  enough. 

"  Ignorance  and  superstition,"  she  thought, 
"  are  to  be  combated  here.  More  work 
given  to  me  to  do.  Ah  me! 

"  '  I  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty — 
I  waked,  and  found  that  life  was  duty.'  " 

Then  she  turned  to  the  old  woman. 

"Where  arc  the  two  young  ladies?"  she 
asked. 

"  De  chilluns?  Missuss's  young  ladies? 
Dey's  in  dere  own  room." 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.         77 

"Then  I  will  go  there,"  said  Beatrice, 
quickly.  "  Show  me  the  way." 

"  De  lawd's  massy,  yer  ain't  agoin'  in  ter 
Miss  Marsh's  room  when  she  doan  invitate 
yer,  is  yer,  Miss  Marsden,  ma'am?"  asked 
Mammy,  with  staring  eyes. 

"  Show  me  the  room  ! "  said  Beatrice, 
imperatively. 

Mammy  backed  every  inch  of  the  way, 
and  coughed  loudly  and  significantly  before 
she  knocked,  and  finally  turned  the  handle 
of  the  door. 

There  was  a  flutter  of  skirts  at  the  win- 
dow. It  was  Cherry  disappearing  into  the 
night. 

The  pale,  haughty  face  of  Marcia  was 
turned  to  the  intruder.  An  unmistakable 
gleam  of  hatred  was  in  the  dark  eyes. 

"  I  am  your  new  mother,"  said  Beatrice, 
gently,  as  she  crossed  the  room.  She  was 
dressed  in  rich  and  elegant  traveling  dress, 
and  in  spite  of  her  weariness  and  presen'. 
dejection  looked  very  handsome  and  re- 
fined. 

"You  are  not  my  mother,"  was  the  chilJ 


78  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

ing  answer.  "You  are  my  father's  wife — 
my  mother  is  dead.  Oh  Mammy,  send  her 
away.  She  will  kill  me  if  you  don't." 

"Hush!  I  will  go,  poor  child!  Who 
has  poisoned  your  mind  against  me?  I  will 
teach  you  yet  to  love  me." 

«No — no — no!  I  hate  you,"  wailed  the 
weak,  querulous  voice  of  the  sick  girl,  and 
with  one  pitying  look  Beatrice  went  away, 
back  to  her  own  room. 

Half  an  hour  later  a  supper  was  served, 
to  which  Beatrice  was  led  by  her  husband. 
Major  Krum  was  present,  and  Cherry  had 
been  coaxed  and  threatened  into  her  usual 
place,  but  as  soon  as  the  Judge  appeared 
with  his  new  bride  the  girl  rose  abruptly 
and  left  the  room.  Beatrice,  accustomed  to 
spotless  housekeeping,  was  horrified  at  the 
neglected  table-service  and  slack  manner  of 
serving  the  food,  but  the  food  itself  was 
above  praise.  The  Maryland  snapped  bis- 
cuit, the  broiled  woodcock,  the  corn  bread 
and  the  sweet-potato  pudding  were  the 
daintiest  of  their  kind.  And  not  even 
Beatrice  herself  could  make  such  coffee  as 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.         79 

this  old-gold  and  cream  decoction  of  Mam- 
my's. It  cheered  and  soothed  the  crushed 
spirits  of  the  unwelcome  mistress  of  this 
fantastic  house,  and  when  she  excused  her- 
self to  the  Major  and  left  the  table  she  felt 
self-reliant  and  almost  happy  again.  The 
Judge  remained  to  have  a  chat  with  his 
old  friend.  Poor  Beatrice !  it  was  a  new 
and  sad  revelation  when  at  daybreak 
she  awakened  from  a  hurried  nap  and 
found  that  he  had  at  last  remembered 
her — he  was  lying  fully  dressed  by  her  side 
in  a  drunken  sleep.  Here  was  work,  indeed, 
to  do.  God  give  her  strength  to  do  it,  was 
her  one  sincere  prayer. 

But  she  was  a  woman  of  sense,  and  knew 
that  reforms  were  not  completed  in  a  day. 
After  the  shock  to  her  sensibility  which 
the  first  knowledge  of  her  husband's  degra- 
dation caused  her  there  came  a  reaction 
of  love  and  pity.  He  must  be  rescued 
from  this  moral  bondage  of  death  and  in- 
cited to  deeds  of  nobler  aim.  His  chil- 
dren must  be  instructed  and  taught  to 
love  their  home.  The  word  seemed  a 


80  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

misnomer  applied  to  this  broken  down 
place,  which  to  the  brisk  mind  of  the 
northern  woman  seemed  only  to  possess 
the  picturesqueness  of  squalor. 

It  had  all  been  made  right  between  her 
and  the  lover  of  her  youth.  He  had  laid 
the  forged  letters  in  her  hand  and  received 
hers  in  return — the  letter  which  the  dead 
woman  had  written  demanding  that  she 
renounce  him,  since  he  loved  another,  and 
they  had  agreed  never  again  to  speak  of 
it.  Each  had  been  married  and  widowed, 
and  neither  had  given  that  first  best  love 
to  those  whose  lives  they  had  shared. 
Beatrice  had  married  a  man  many  years 
older  than  herself.  She  had  made  him  a 
good,  true  wife,  and  had  been  a  loving 
mother  to  his  only  child.  She  had  made 
him  happy,  but  the  encouraging  voice  of 
duty  had  been  her  only  reward.  To  her  that 
had  seemed  all-sufficient  until  the  lover  of 
her  youth  came  to  her  with  the  desire  to 
set  himself  right,  and  prove  that  he  had 
never  been  recreant  to  his  trust.  All  her 
love  revived  at  sight  of  him.  She  was  a 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.        81 

rich  woman  and  could  do  as  she  pleased. 
And  she  pleased  to  marry,  afraid  to  trust 
to  a  second  wooing.  He  had  spoken  of  his 
two  girls  as  children,  and  mentioned  Mar- 
cia's  singular  illness  as  a  temporary  effect 
of  over-study.  To  tell  the  truth,  the  Judge 
cared  little  for  money,  and  the  fact  that 
his  wife  had  a  dower  did  not  influence 
him  to  hasten  the  marriage.  He  wanted 
love — a  companion  for  his  lonely  hours — 
the  ideal  of  his  youth.  He  found  all  in 
this  grand,  accomplished,  beautiful  woman, 
and  with  a  man's  inconsistency  was  not 
deterred  from  offering  himself  because  he 
was  in  impoverished  circumstances.  If 
Beatrice  had  not  possessed  a  dollar  he 
would  have  concluded  that  they  could 
live — somehow. 

For  a  few  weeks  the  new  wife  let  every- 
thing go  on  as  before.  She  was  simply  a 
boarder  in  her  own  house.  With  her  new- 
found love  she  wandered  about  the  fields 
and  groves  of  the  lovely  southern  country, 
and  the  two  learned  all  that  had  happened 
in  those  lost  years  from  each  other's  lips. 


82  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

Life  could  not  go  on  very  long  in  this  happy, 
care-free,  picnic  fashion.  The  Judge  felt  with 
new  pride  and  elation  that  he  must  bestir 
himself  in  his  neglected  profession.  Beatrice 
saw  the  neglect  and  poverty  that  ruled 
everything,  and  determined  with  generous 
hand  to  remove  them.  She  would  buy  the 
old  house  back  into  the  family,  and  remove 
the  landmarks  of  debt.  One  day  she  saw 
Cherry  peering  at  her  from  behind  the  vines. 
The  girl  looked  wild  and  neglected,  and  a 
sudden  pity  for  her  stirred  the  heart  of  the 
new  wife.  Elusive  and  mocking,  she  was 
gone  in  a  moment,  but  Beatrice  felt  that  it 
was  a  call  from  duty,  who,  jealous  mistress, 
would  have  no  rival.  Then  she  ended  her 
days  of  married  courtship  and  entered  upon 
the  new  role  of  mistress  of  the  house. 

So  it  happened  that  a  few  days  after  that 
Judge  Marsden  went  into  the  great  kitchen, 
which  was  Mammy's  sole  and  undisputed 
realm,  and  solemnly  addressed  the  old  tur- 
baned  queen  : 

"  Mammy,  when  Mrs.  Marsden  comes 
down  here  you  are  to  do  exactly  as  she  tells 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.         83 

you  to,  without  any  complaints  or  words 
about  it.  You  understand?" 

Mammy  folded  her  bare,  black  arms 
over  her  capacious  bosom  and  looked 
at  the  "  Jedge."  For  half  a  minute  she 
stared  boldly  and  defiantly,  then  her  eyes 
fell. 

"Yes,  sah!" 

"  And  you  are  not  to  uphold  those  girls 
in  any  disobedience,  or  help  Cherry  in  any 
of  her  pranks.  Her  mother  will  look  after 
her  now.  Understand,  eh?" 

"Yes,  sah!" 

The  Judge  went  out  and  Mammy  looked 
after  him  with  a  legible  dislike  upon  her 
old  face. 

"  Jes'  to  tink  of  dat.  An'  he  ain't  no 
Clyffe,  and  neber  was.  Ef  Mis'  Marie  cum 
back  she  jest  turn  ober  in  her  grave," 
reasoned  Mammy  in  her  own  fashion.  Then 
she  began  to  sing ;  it  was  the  only  way 
in  which  she  could  find  relief.  She  sung 
the  songs  of  slavery  although  she  had  long 
been  a  free  woman.  But  it  comforted  her 
to  sing: 


84  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"'Nobody  knows  de  trouble  I  seen, 

Nobody  knows  but  Jesus. 
Nobody  knows  de  trouble   I  seen; 
Nobcdy  knows  but  Jesus.'" 

"  De  Jedge  lookin'  mighty  fine.  I  reckun 
de  new  missus  been  givin'  him  de  chalk- 
line  ter  walk — yah,  yah  !  Dese  am  mighty 
changed  times  foh  de  Clyffe  House,"  she 
soliloquized. 

So  one  morning  Beatrice  went  into  the 
kitchen,  determined  to  begin  the  work  of 
subjugating  the  dirt  and  disorder  which 
had  become  organized  forces  by  attacking 
them  in  their  stronghold.  Mammy,  the 
picturesque  despot  of  the  realm,  had  no 
idea  of  surrendering  her  power  without 
a  struggle,  and  she  met  her  new  mistress 
in  her  most  aggressive  mood.  When 
Mrs.  Marsden  entered  the  pantry  the  old 
colored  woman  followed  her  and  defended 
her  territory  from  the  unwelcome  invasion 
with  every  means  at  her  disposal  save  that 
of  absolute  physical  strength.  It  was  not 
a  desirable  place  to  invade.  Beatrice, 
educated  to  the  neat,  systematic  house- 
keeping of  the  north,  was  astonished  and 


He  held  the  letter  up  over  his  head  and  said  unsteadily 
"  Lemnie  alone  !  I've  got  bad  news  !"    (Page  58.) 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.        87 

dismayed  at  the  confusion,  waste  and  dis- 
order that  confronted  her.  She  found 
spices,  candle-ends  and  family  silver  mixed 
up  with  a  total  disregard  of  the  fitness  of 
things.  In  a  bowl  of  rare  Dresden  china 
she  discovered  a  half-used  cake  of  toilet 
soap. 

"  Doan  tech  dem  tings,  Missis,"  implored 
the  old  woman,  with  protruding  eyeballs, 
"dey's  sacred,  dem  is." 

"  Sacred,"  echoed  Beatrice,  "  I  should 
think  if  they  were  you  would  take  better 
care  of  them.  This  bowl  must  be  kept  in 
the  china  closet,  where  it  belongs." 

"  Dat  bowl,"  screamed  Mammy,  "  am  de 
wessel  dat  my  young  ladies  wus  baptized 
in.  It  am  neber  kept  nowhere  but  in  dis 
yeah  pantry." 

"  Oh,"  said  Beatrice,  laughing,  "  if  it  is 
a  baptismal  font  we  will  be  careful  of  it 
by  putting  it  where  it  will  not  be  used  as 
a  catch-all." 

She  threw  the  soap  into  a  receptacle  for 
such  things,  but  in  a  moment  Mammy  had 
pounced  upon  it  and  with  indignation  res- 


88  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

cued  it  from  such  unhallowed  company. 
"Yer  doan  know,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
implied  sympathy  for  such  ignorance,  "  but 
dat  cake  ob  soap  am  de  berry  las'  one  my 
dear  Miss  Clyffe  wus  washed  wid." 

The  tears  rolled  down  her  dusky  cheeks, 
and  she  clasped  the  precious  cake  of  soap 
to  her  bosom  as  if  she  would  protect  it 
with  her  life. 

"  Ignorance  and  superstition,  indeed !" 
commented  Beatrice.  "  No  wonder  the 
poor  children  are  half  barbarians,  educated 
under  this  regime.  But  patience ;  this  is 
but  the  prelude  to  my  work — the  molehills 
of  difficulty.  God  give  me  strength  for 
my  task. 

'  Who  sweeps  a  room  as  for  thy  laws 
Makes  that  and  th'   action  fine.' 

Success,  success  at  any  cost!" 

It  seemed  to  Beatrice  as  if  the  spirit  of 
the  late  Mrs.  Marsden  rose  at  every  step 
to  throw  obstacles  in  her  way,  but  with 
resolute  hand  she  continued  to  demolish 
memorial  tablets  of  soap,  nutmegs,  and 
other  ingredients  of  domestic  service  which 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  BREATH.         89 

had  been  appropriated  by  Mammy  as  sacred 
to  the  memory  of  her  late  mistress. 

"  Dat  nutmeg  was  used  las'  to  grate  a 
leetle  into  de  bery  las'  mou'ful  ob  gruel 
she  ebber  took,"  and  old  Mammy  wiped 
away  some  genuine  tears.  "And  dat  bit 
ob  candle  was  burnin'  de  berry  night  afore 
she  died ;  and  dere's  de  windin'  sheet  in 
de  taller ;  I  sabed  it  foh  de  chillun  to  hab 
when  dey's  ole  enuff." 

"Poor  children!"  thought  Beatrice.  "It  is 
through  such  legacies  they  have  acquired 
their  inheritance  of  waywardness  and  igno- 
rance." 

At  every  step  Beatrice  found  the  imprint 
of  a  dead  woman's  hand.  The  finest  linen 
in  the  house  was  rolled  into  an  unsightly 
wad,  and  yellow  with  age  and  neglect,  thrust 
away  among  an  accumulation  of  rubbish. 
She  was  not  unprepared  when  she  approached 
Mammy  on  the  subject,  for  the  appearance 
of  the  household  specter. 

"It  hab  nebber  bin  used,"  said  the  old 
woman,  solemnly,  "  since  de  day  when  we 
funeralized  my  deah  Miss  Clyffe." 


90  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

This  was  the  way  in  which  Mammy 
referred  to  her  late  mistress,  the  judge's  first 
;vife.  She  had  never  called  her  by  any  but 
her  maiden  name. 

It  took  months  of  patient  labor  to  evolve 
neatness  and  system  out  of  organized  dis- 
order, but  it  was  finally  accomplished,  and 
Beatrice  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
whole  house  transformed  into  a  place  of  com- 
fort and  respectability,  always  excepting  the 
Judge's  own  particular  den  and  the  large 
front  room  occupied  by  the  sisters.  Having 
subdued  to  her  service  the  inanimate  and 
temporal  things  of  the  household,  the  new 
wife  turned  her  attention  to  the  higher  spir- 
itual lives  wasting  in  neglect  and  unthrift 
like  valueless  weeds.  But  here  new  and 
unforeseen  difficulties  threatened  her. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LETTERS  AND   LETTERS. 

"  A  letter  for  Miss  Marcia  !  "  Major  Krum 
announced  one  morning  in  his  most  pomp- 
ous manner.  The  Major  was  not  at  present 
a  daily  visitor  at  Clyffe  House.  He  had 
made  several  ineffectual  trials  to  convey  this 
same  letter  to  Marcia,  but  had  always  been 
intercepted  by  Beatrice,  and  he  had  gone  off 
deeply  chagrined,  and  with  the  letter  still  in 
his  possession. 

The  fact  was,  Beatrice  had  taken  a  formi- 
dable dislike  to  the  suave  and  inoffensive 
ex-soldier,  whose  greatest  fault  lay  in  his 
devotion  to  his  cups,  his  life  in  all  other 
respects  being  singularly  blameless.  But  to 
her  his  careless  habits  and  convivial  nature 
were  exceedingly  distasteful,  and  made  a 
most  unfavorable  impression.  She  was  deter- 
mined to  win  her  husband  from  all  his  past 
bad  associations,  and  she  soon  gave  the 
91 


92  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

Major  to  understand  that  she  would  not 
tolerate  any  lapse  into  the  old  dissolute 
ways.  There  was  no  half-way  in  Beatrice's 
morality.  She  had  no  excuses  for  aristo- 
cratic drunkenness.  Because  a  man  came  of 
a  good  family,  and  belonged  to  the  patrician 
walks  of  life,  was  reason  enough  that  he 
should  set  a  higher  example  to  his  fellow- 
men.  She  had  no  patience  with  the  social 
code  which  permitted  a  man  to  drink  himself 
into  a  state  of  maudlin  imbecility  as  a  tribute 
to  post-prandial  conviviality.  She  plainly 
intimated  to  the  Major  that  he  could  not 
come  and  go  at  will  until  he  mended  his 
ways.  She  would  not  permit  the  two  young 
girls  to  receive  him  as  they  would  a  brother, 
even  though  he  was  nearly  as  old  as  their 
father.  Nor  could  she  make  any  excuse 
for  the  moral  turpitude  of  her  husband, 
who  not  only  welcomed  the  Major  himself, 
but  allowed  his  daughters  the  daily  influ- 
ence of  his  society. 

"  You  cannot  see  Marcia,"  said  Beatrice, 
gently,  but  in  an  authoritative  tone.  "  I 
will  give  her  the  letter  myself." 


LETTERS  AND   LETTERS.  93 

"  If  you  please,  I  prefer  to  give  her  the 
letter  with  my  own  hands,  an'  I'm  goin'-  to 
do  it,"  answered  the  Major,  doggedly. 

"  Major  Krum,  we  may  as  well  understand 
each  other,"  said  Beatrice,  firmly.  "  I  am 
Richard  Marsden's  wife,  the  mistress  of  his 
house  —  and  —  "her  voice  faltered  —  "the 
mother  of  his  children." 

"  Stepmother,"  retorted  the  Major,  in  a 
hateful,  mocking  tone. 

"Very  well,"  answered  Beatrice,  with  a 
trembling  lip.  "  God  grant  that  I  may  make 
a  faithful  stepmother.'' 

The  Major  was  ashamed  and  sorry  as  soon 
as  he  had  spoken.  His  naturally  good  heart 
prompted  him  to  undo  his  cruel  speech. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  and  forget  that  I 
could  have  been  so  ungentlemanly.  Th' 
fact  is — fact  is — I  am  not  quite  myself  this 
mornin'." 

"  No,  and  you  are  never  quite  yourself, 
Major,"  responded  Beatrice,  sorrowfully; 
"  that  is  what  pains  and  distresses  me.  You 
must  see  that  I  am  determined  to  win 
Richard  Marsden  away  from  old  associa- 


94  HER  DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

tions  which  have  dragged  him  down  ;  help 
me  and  you  will  win  my  undying  grati- 
tude." 

"  My  deah  lady,  if  I  cannot  help  you,  I 
at  least  will  not  hinder  you.  I  need  not 
say  that  your  brave  stand  for  the  right  is 
fully  appreciated  by  me.  Th'  only  thing  I 
can  promise  is  that  I  will  not  come  into 
your  presence  again  until  I  am  sure  of 
reforming  myself,  an'  you  have  my  word 
that  I  will  nevah  again  tempt  your  husband 
to  do  wrong.  You  have  conquered." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  before  she  could 
prevent  him,  had  lifted  it  respectfully  to 
his  lips.  A  mocking  laugh  broke  the 
momentary  silence,  and  Cherry  stepped  in 
from  the  window  opening  on  the  veranda. 

The  Major  turned  away  with  a  look  of 
supreme  disgust.  It  is  always  the  woman 
who  is  master  of  the  situation  on  such 
occasions.  Beatrice  turned  to  Cherry  and 
handed  her  the  letters  and  package. 

"  Give  these  to  Marcia,"  she  said,  gravely, 
"  and,  Cherry,  I  think  you  are  too  large  a 
girl  to  bound  into  the  house  in  such  a 


LETTERS   AND    LETTERS.  95 

hoydenish  fashion.  I  would  like  you  to 
remember  this  and  enter  by  the  door  in 
future." 

"  And  I  ain't  comin'  in  anywhere  else 
but  at  the  winder,  Mrs.  Stepmother,"  said 
Cherry,  in  an  impertinent  undertone. 

She  detailed  to  Marcia  with  distinct  mi- 
nuteness the  scene  she  had  just  witnessed 
between  the  Major  and  Beatrice.  Marcia 
listened,  and  a  sullen  glow  of  anger  stained 
her  pale  cheek  with  an  unpleasant  red. 

"  She  has  taken  papa  away  from  us,  and 
now  she  will  take  Maje  !  Oh  Cherry !  why 
couldn't  it  have  all  staid  as  it  was  before 
she  came." 

"  H'm,  it  can't  be  much  worser,"  retorted 
Cherry,  "even  with  a  stepmother  roun'.  Here 
is  a  letter  for  you,  Marsh.  She  wouldn't 
let  old  Maje  bring  it  up.  Wasn't  he  mad, 
though ! " 

Marcia  opened  the  large,  flat  parcel.  It 
was  a  letter  and  a  photograph — the  picture 
of  a  young  man,  with  a  proud,  sensitive 
face,  and  large,  earnest  eyes. 

"  Looks  jes"  like   Clarence   Stedman,  the 


96      HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

feller  I  daunced  with  down  at  the  ball,"  said 
Cherry. 

"It's  the  editor  of  the  Day  Star,  Edgar 
Harrington,"  said  Marcia,  looking  at  it  with 
admiring  glances.  "  And  such  a  lovely 
letter — so  kind  and  good,  just  as  if  he  was 
a  dear  friend  I  had  known  all  my  life. 
And,  Cheriy,  I  am  to  send  them  something 
for  every  paper,  and  they  will  pay  me  for 
it,  and  the  money  will  be  mine  to  do  with 
just  as  I  like." 

"  Don'  see  as  it'll  ever  do  you  enny  good, 
lyin'  there  sick.  Why  don'  you  sit  up  like 
other  folks,  Marsh  ? " 

"  How  can  I  ?  Do  you  think  I  lie  here 
because  I  like  it?  If  I  could  walk " 

"  But  you  kin,"  interrupted  Cherry.  "  I 
seen  you." 

A  strange  glow  burned  in  the  girl's  cheek, 
and  she  angrily  muttered  something  about 
"enchantment."  Cherry  turned  the  subject. 

"Read  yer  piece  to  me,  Marsh." 

"  Call  it  an  article,  Cherry.  That  is  what 
the  editor  calls  such  writings." 

"Well,    read   yer  arctic,    then.      It   allus 


LETTERS   AND   LETTERS.  97 

makes  me  feel  kind  of  all  overish,  an'  jes* 
as  if  I  woz  so  happy  I  wanted  to  cry  to 
hear  them  things  read  outen  loud." 

Marcia  spread  out  the  newspaper  with 
white,  trembling  hands,  and  looked  fondly 
at  the  column  where  her  production  had 
a  prominent  heading. 

"This  is  called  a  sketch,"  she  said,  look- 
ing it  over.  "  Oh,  Cherry,  it  does  not  seem 
as  if  I  wrote  this.  It  seems  as  if  a  voice 
whispered  it  to  me,  and  I  took  the  words 
down.  I  go  out  of  myself  and  roam  the 
streets  or  fly  far  off  to  countries  I  have 
never  seen,  and  the  voice  goes  with  me. 
Cherry,  what  does  it  mean?" 

"  Coin'  crazy,"  suggested  the  practical 
Cherry. 

"No;  it  is  inspiration.  I  wish  I  could 
say  genius.  Think  what  a  grand  thing 
to  be  able  to  write  a  book  that  would 
be  read  everywhere — something  that  would 
instruct  and  please  and  help  to  educate 
people." 

Marcia  was  either  not  familiar  with  Charles 

Kingsley's  verse,  or  she  failed  to  make  any 
7 


98  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

application  of  it  to  her  own  case.  She  was 
not  roused  to  heed  the  poet's  words: 

"  Be  good,  dear  child,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 
Do  noble  things — not  dream  them  all  day  long." 

She  was  only  a  dreamer  —  not  a  real 
worker. 

"Write  a  "love  story,"  suggested  Cherry, 
"like  Paul  and  Virginia  did,  Marsh." 

"  They  lived  it,  Cherry,  and  some  one 
else  wrote  it.  But  I — I  have  had  no  expe- 
rience." 

Cherry  laughed.  "  There's  Maje,"  she 
suggested,  saucily.  "Yer  mought  call  it 
'  Handed  Down,'  or,  '  From  Mother  to 
Daughter.'  Say,  wouldn't  that  soun'  real 
kind  of  splendid?" 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  read  you  my  last 
sketch?  Then  keep  still,  Cherry,"  and 
Marcia  read  aloud  her  latest  contribution 
to  the  Day  Star.  It  was  called  "  No  dear 
face  at  the  window,"  and  recited  pathetic- 
ally the  story  of  a  little  child  who  every 
night  watched  at  the  window  for  her  drunken 
father.  It  was  not  until  she  had  died  from 
a  cold  contracted  at  her  post  that  he  learned 


LETTERS  AND   LETTERS. 

to  value  her  love.  Some  one  wrote  him  a 
letter  purporting  to  come  from  the  little 
one  in  heaven,  and  telling  him  she  would 
watch  for  him  there.  '  He  reformed  and 
lived  a  better  life,  in  expectation  of  seeing 
her  face  at  the  window  of  the  upper  man- 
sion. Marcia  read  it  well,  and  when  she 
had  finished  Cherry  was  sobbing. 

"  It  war  jes'  too  mean  to  have  her  die," 
she  exclaimed,  dashing  off  the  tears.  "  Say, 
Marsh,  where  did  you  find  all  of  'em  nice 
words  ?  Did  they  grow  in  yer  mind  ?  " 

"  You  forget  that  I  have  been  to  school, 
and  am  not  such  an  ignoramus  as  you  are," 
retorted  her  sister. 

"  What's  a  igneramous — ennything  like 
the  other  kind  of  mouse  ?  Ef  I  hadn't  but 
jes'  one  little  sister  what  didn't  know  noth- 
ing I  guess  I  wouldn't  call  her  names," 
sobbed  Cherry. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  ever  be  anything 
but  a  great,  overgrown  baby,"  said  Marcia. 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  light  tap 
on  the  door,  and  Beatrice  entered.  Marcia 
hurriedly  thrust  the  letter  and  paper  under 


100  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

her  pillow,  but  in  her  haste  and  excitement 
forgot  the  photograph.  Her  stepmother 
saw  it,  started,  and  after  looking  at  it  a 
moment,  asked  hurriedly: 

"How  did  you  obtain  this  picture?" 

Marcia  was  faint,  and  could  only  murmur 
a  few  unintelligible  words,  but  she  attempted 
to  possess  herself  of  the  picture,  which 
Beatrice  as  quickly  removed  beyond  her 
reach.  Cherry,  who  stood  near,  flew  at  her 
like  a  little  fury. 

"  It's  Marsh's  picture,"  she  shrieked, 
clutching  it  with  a  strength  that  was  resist- 
less. "There,  Marsh,  I've  got  it,  an'  I'll 
keep  it  for  yer." 

"  It  is  the  picture  of  my — my — a  dear 
friend  of  mine,"  said  Beatrice,  overcome  by 
Cherry's  violence. 

"And  of  mine,"  murmured  Marcia,  with 
white  lips. 

"  Where  could  you  have  met  him,  Edgar 
Harrington?  Was  it  while  you  were  at 
school?  I  never  knew  he  had  visited  the 
south." 

Marcia  did  not  answer. 


LETTERS  AND  LETTERS.      101 

"You  will  not  mind  telling  me— he  is 
my — my — a  very  dear  friend.  How  did  you 
obtain  this  picture?  Do  you  know  the 
original?  " 

But  Marcia's  lips  did  not  move  to  affirm 
or  deny.  She  had  passed  into  that  rigid 
comatose  state  which  was  one  of  the  pecul- 
iar features  of  her  singular  illness. 

"You've  tired  her  to  death,  stepmother," 
said  Cherry,  angrily. 

Beatrice  retired  from  the  room,  much 
distressed  and  mystified.  At  dinner  the 
Judge  handed  her  a  letter. 

"  A  manly  handwriting,"  he  said,  with  a 
laugh.  As  Beatrice  was  a  business  woman 
he  would  have  surmised  that  the  letter  was 
from  some  agent  of  hers  if  he  had  thought 
about  it  at  all. 

His  wife  took  the  letter,  and  her  face 
wore  a  troubled,  perplexed  look  as  she 
opened  it. 

"Is  it  good  news?"  inquired  her  hus- 
band. 

"Oh,  the  letter!  I  was  not  thinking  of 
that ! "  she  answered,  abstractedly. 


102  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

She  saw  her  husband  regarding  her,  and 
the  blood  slowly  mounted  to  her  face. 

"What  the  deuce  is  she  blushing  at?" 
thought  Richard  Marsden,  and  the  demon  of 
jealousy,  that  lurks  on  the  threshold  of 
every  man's  soul,  entered  in  and  took  pos- 
session. 

He  went  out  and  hunted  up  the  Major, 
intending  to  drown  his  senses  in  a  con- 
vivial bout. 

But  the  Major  positively  refused  to  drink. 

"  Hev  turned  over  a  new  leaf  myself, 
Jedge ;  find  it  was  kind  of  ruinin'  my 
health  and  spoilin'  my  prospects  to  be  a 
slave  to  a  bad  habit.  An'  you've  got 
better  reasons  'n  I  hev,  Jedge,  for  lettin' 
the  stuff  alone." 

"Don't  lecture  me!"  retorted  the  Judge, 
fiercely.  "  I  get  enough  of  that  at  home." 

"Well,  Jedge,  if  I  had  such  a  wife " 

"  D — n  my  wife ! "  answered  his  friend, 
savagely. 

"  Not  in  my  presence,  Jedge,  ef  you 
please ;  she's  a  noble  Christian  woman,  an' 
I  respect  her  ef  her  husband  doesn't." 


LETTERS  AND  LETTERS.      103 

"  She  turned  you  out  of  the  house," 
sneered  the  Judge. 

"  Not  'zactly,  Jedge ;  I  kind  of  turned 
myself  out  through  goin'  there  when  I 
wasn't  fit  company  for  man  or  beast.  Look 
at  me  now,  Jedge — look  at  me." 

The  Major  inflated  his  breast  till  it 
nearly  filled  his  coat-front,  and  puffed  out 
his  cheek  .until  he  resembled  a  very  ancient 
cherub,  and  struck  a  resounding  blow  upon 
his  manly  bosom.  The  Judge  laughed, 
angry  as  he  was. 

"She'll  make  a  man  of  me.  Look  on  this 
picture  and  then  on  that.  An'  look  at  the 
house,  Jedge.  An'  she'll  bring  the  girls 
roun'  yet.  She'll  be  the  makin'  of  us  all." 

Richard  Marsden  went  home  that  night 
in  a  much  improved  temper,  and  ashamed 
of  his  fit  of  spleen.  Beatrice  was  at  the 
door  to  welcome  him,  as  usual.  How  hand- 
some, how  good  and  pure  she  looked — a 
woman  to  be  trusted — a  woman  to  adorn 
the  most  elegant  society,  one  who  could 
have  chosen  a  husband  from  among  men 
of  mark,  and  she  had  given  herself  to  him. 


1(4  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

And  what  had  he  to  offer  in  return?  A 
)r>me  in  a  tumble-down  old  house  which 
Ii-  did  not  own,  where  she  was  like  a 
Jove  in  the  eagle's  nest:  his  young  bar- 
barians, who  only  tormented  and  distressed 
her:  himself,  with  his  broken-down  health 
;nd  bankrupt  estate.  There  was  some  sense 
<•  /f  shame  in  the  man,  and  in  his  heart  he  ac- 
'nowledged  himself  unworthy  of  her  love. 

But  that  letter!  It  annoyed  him  more 
than  he  cared  to  own. 

"Who  did  you  say  your  letter  was  from?" 
he  asked  at  supper. 

"  It  was  from  Edgar  Harrington." 

She  did  not  offer  to  read  it  to  him  or 
make  any  further  allusion  to  it. 

"Edgar  Harrington  !  Must  have  been  her 
first  husband's  brother ;  I  have  heard  her 
speak  of  him,"  thought  the  Judge.  "What 
the  deuce  has  he  to  write  to  her  about, 
and  why  cannot  she  let  me  see  his  letter?" 

The  Judge  relapsed  into  a  disagreeable 
mood,  and  as  he  cast  his  eyes  around  the 
table  he  looked  particularly  at  Cherry, 
who  on  this  occasion  was  present.  Her 


LETTERS  AND  LETTERS.       105 

hair  was  wind-blown,  her  dress  torn  and 
faded,  and  she  presented  such  a  start- 
ling contrast  to  the  elegant  woman  who 
presided  that  it  aroused  his  anger  against 
the  girl. 

"  Cherry,  what  are  you  rigged  out  in 
that  rag-tag  fashion  for?  If  you  have 
nothing  better  to  wear  eat  your  meals  with 
Marcia." 

"Gettin*  pertikeler,  ain't  you?"  said  the 
saucy  girl.  "I  reckon  stepmother " 

"  Stop  that  nonsense ! "  thundered  the 
Judge,  raising  his  hand.  "  If  you  speak  of 
your  mother  do  so  properly." 

"  She  isn't  my  mother !  "  screamed  the 
child,  angrily.  "  My  mother  is  an  angel  in 
heaven.  I  won't  have  her  for  my  mother. 
I  want  my  own."  And  she  burst  into  a 
passionate  fit  of  weeping. 

Beatrice  placed  her  hand  upon  her  heart 
to  stop  its  tumultuous  beating. 

"  This  is  dreadful,"  she  said.  "  Richard, 
you  should  never  have  brought  me  here. 
You  told  me  the  children  would  welcome 
me  as  their  mother,  but  they  have  given 


106  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

me  only  insult  and  unkindness.  I  cannot 
win  them  by  love,  but  while  I  am  here 
they  must  respect  me,  even  if  I  am  not 
their  mother." 

"Stepmother!"  muttered  Cherry,  in  a 
hateful  aside. 

The  Judge  raised  his  hand,  but  his  wife 
stepped  quickly  between  the  two. 

"  Leave  the  room ! "  she  said  to  the  girl. 
Cherry  had  never  heard  her  use  that  com- 
manding tone.  She-  made  an  ineffectual 
attempt  to  speak,  but  broke  down  and 
rushed  away  in  a  whirlwind  of  passion. 

"You  have  conquered  her  this  time, 
Beatrice,"  said  the  Judge,  returning  to  his 
supper  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

"  But  at  what  a  cost,"  thought  the  un- 
happy stepmother. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"WE   HAVE  BEEN   FRIENDS  TOGETHER." 

As  Cherry  made  her  hasty  and  tumult- 
uous exit  from  the  supper-table,  whence 
she  was  so  peremptorily  dismissed  by  her 
stepmother,  she  observed  a  letter  lying  on 
the  floor,  and  picking  it  up  secreted  it  in 
her  pocket.  She  thought  she  recognized 
it  as  one  she  had  seen  Beatrice  reading, 
and  feeling  angry  and  hateful  kept  it 
without  realizing  that  she  was  really  com- 
mitting a  crime.  When  she  went  to  Mar- 
cia's  room  she  indignantly  related  the  scene 
down  stairs  and  ended  by  throwing  the 
letter  contemptuously  on  the  bed. 

There  Marcia  found  it  when  her  young 
sister,  overburdened  with  imaginary  wrongs 
and  fancied  injuries,  was  at  last  sleeping 
soundly,  with  occasional  passionate  sobbings, 
as  if  even  in  sleep  she  were  re-enacting 

the  daily  tragedy  of  her  life.    Marcia,  restless 
107 


108  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

and  unhappy,  threw  her  arms  wearily  about 
her,  and  felt  the  letter  lying  where  it  had 
been  thrown.  The  writing  was  unfamiliar, 
but  the  address,  "  Mrs.  Richard  Marsden," 
was  plain  enough,  even  in  the  dull  light  of 
the  night-lamp.  Marcia  did  not  intend  to 
read  the  letter,  but  wondering  much  how 
it  came  there  she  took  it  out  of  its  en- 
velope and  glanced  at  the  first  page,  won- 
dered more,  read  a  few  words  and  turned 
to  the  signature.  Startled  and  surprised 
at  the  name  written  there  she  then  delib- 
erately mastered  the  contents  of  a  letter 
that  belonged  to  another  woman ;  read 
with  frowning  brow  and  an  ominous  glitter 
in  the  sullen  eyes  the  following  epistle: 
"Mv  BELOVED  QUEEN: 

"  There  are  good  and  sufficient  reasons 
why  I  have  denied  myself  the  happy  priv- 
ilege of  writing  to  you  of  late,  but  not 
the  one  that  I  fear  you  may  suspect — a 
lapse  into  that  unhealthy  and  despondent 
state  where  the  only  outcome  of  my  life 
seems  total  failure  and  from  which  your 
dear  hand  has  so  often  snatched  me. 


WE   HAVE   BEEN   FRIENDS.  109 

Never,  my  dearest  friend,  will  you  find  me 
unworthy  of  the  love  and  confidence  you 
have  reposed  in  me,  weak  and  unworthy 
as  I  am.  When  I  forget  your  love,  or 
prove  recreant  to  the  trust  you  have 
reposed  in  me,  then  will  I  have  forgotten 
all  else  on  earth. 

"  It  has  occurred  to  me  that  possibly  some 
new  trouble  menaces  you,  dear  friend.  I 
detect  in  your  precious  letters  a  vein  of 
sadness  that  should  not  be  there.  Dearest 
and  wisest  of  counselors,  let  me  advise  you. 
Do  not  sacrifice  yourself  again  in  any  vica- 
rious atonement  for  weak,  ungrateful  hu- 
manity. You  are  a  woman  made  to  be 
loved,  worshiped,  idolized,  and  to  fill  the 
lives  near  you  with  unspeakable  happiness. 
I  can  never  forget  all  you  have  been  to 
me.  How  willingly,  gladly  would  I  give 
up  my  worthless  life  could  it  procure  you 
one  hour  of  happiness.  If  ever  you  need 
me  to  champion  your  cause  I  am  always 
your  true  knight-errant.  Dearest  and  best  of 
friends,  adieu,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  that 
sweet  foreign  word.  EDGAR  HARRINGTON," 


110  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

If  the  letter  was  a  surprise  to  Marcia 
the  name  appended  to  it  was  more :  it 
was  a  shock.  And  this  man  had  written 
love-letters  to  her — Marcia.  At  least  if  they 
were  not  love-letters  they  had  been  so 
worded  as  to  awaken  in  her  lifeless  heart 
a  new  passion,  of  which  she  had  never 
dreamed.  But  then  the  handwriting  was 
entirely  different !  What  did  that  imply  ? 
Could  there  be  two  of  that  name?  She 
thought  over  it  until  the  stupor  which 
crept  over  her  with  the  sudden  and  strange 
effect  of  a  swift  narcotic  took  possession 
of  her  senses,  and  she  fell  asleep  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand. 

Beatrice  had  worked  a  complete  and 
radical  change  in  the  dilapidated  grandeur 
of  Clyffe  House.  Not  by  means  of  paper 
and  paint,  or  any  of  the  glaring  innova- 
tions of  modern  art,  but  by  the  aid  of  a 
corps  of  strong-armed  workwomen  and  the 
best  upholstery  that  could  be  obtained  in 
Sparta.  New,  massive  furniture  of  her  own 
replaced  what  was  broken  and  useless. 
New  hangings  took  the  place  of  the 


WE  HAVE   BEEN   FRIENDS.  Ill 

worn-out,  faded  tapestries,  and  the  house 
was  turned  into  a  beautiful,  comfortable 
home  so  deftly  that  there  were  no  violent 
contrasts  to  mark  the  change.  A  pretty 
room  was  prepared  for  Cherry.  Mrs. 
Marsden  left  the  uncomfortable  chamber 
of  the  sick  girl  to  the  last.  Marcia  was 
determined  that  the  spirit  of  progress 
should  not  obtain  a  foothold  in  her 
room.  She  willfully  rejected  any  attempt 
to  refurnish  or  beautify  it.  Beatrice, 
however,  conquered  at  last.  When  Mar- 
cia had  cried  and  worried  herself  into 
a  fit  of  illness,  and  was  reduced  to  an  al- 
most comatose  state,  her  father  himself 
carried  her  into  Cherry's  pretty  room. 
In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours  she  was 
back  in  her  own  chamber.  It  was  prettily 
furnished  with  a  dainty  suit  of  rosewood, 
her  mother's  picture,  handsomely  framed, 
hung  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  and  fresh  flow- 
ers bloomed  on  a  bracket  under  it.  White 
toilet  coverings  were  arranged  with  grace- 
ful display.  All  her  favorite  books  were 
disposed  in  classified  order,  and  a  lovely 


112  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

couch  took  the  place  of  the  dilapidated 
rocker  in  which  she  spent  part  of  her 
time.  During  the  process  of  removal 
Beatrice  discovered  the  picture  and  the 
package  of  correspondence.  But  she  was 
too  true  a  woman  to  take  advantage  of 
the  helplessness  of  the  sick  girl  to  make 
any  attempt  at  penetrating  the  mystery  of 
her  correspondence  or  of  the  possession  of 
that  picture.  And  so  carefully  did  she 
refrain  from  glancing  at  the  package  of 
letters  that  she  did  not  observe  that  one 
was  her  own,  lost,  and  looked  for  in  every 
nook  and  corner  without  success.  She  had 
not  yet  learned  to  fear  treachery  in  her 
own  household.  An  extract  from  one  of 
her  letters  to  Edgar  Harrington  will  show 
the  state  of  her  feelings  at  this  time  : 

"  The  knowledge  that  I  have  at  least 
been  a  benefit  to  the  inanimate  part  of 
the  household  must,  I  fear,  dear  friend,  be 
my  only  compensation.  I  cannot  win  a 
place  in  the  hearts  of  these  girls,  who  so 
much  need  a  mother's  care.  I  cannot 
teach  them  the  necessity  of  any  life  higher 


WE   HAVE   BEEN   FRIENDS.  113 

than  that  of  the  animals — eating  and  drink- 
ing. Dress  they  utterly  ignore.  There  is  a 
certain  charm  in  their  complete  ignorance 
of  all  social  laws  and  customs — the  young- 
est one,  indeed,  is  like  a  bird  or  squirrel 
of  the  woods,  wild  and  untamable,  but 
innocent  and  very  beautiful.  I  wish  you 
could  see  her,  she  is  such  an  exquisite 
creature  in  her  uncivilized  dress  and  child- 
ish ways.  I  could  love  her  very  fondly, 
but  cannot  get  near  her,  she  is  so  wild 
and  willful.  The  other  sister  is  a  capri- 
cious invalid,  who,  I  fancy,  is  the  slave  of 
her  own  sick  fancies.  I  begin  to  think 
that  I  shall  yet  have  to  resort  to  desper- 
ate measures  to  conquer  those  unyielding 
natures.  My  husband  has  no  knowledge 
of  his  children.  A  superstitious  old  col- 
ored woman  has  had  the  sole  care  of  them 
and  has  filled  their  young  heads  with  the 
most  foolish  ideas  of  their  own  impor- 
tance. They  are  ignorant  of  everything 
they  ought  to  know.  The  youngest  can 
neither  read  nor  write.  I  imagine  it  will 
be  the  most  delightful  of  tasks  to  teach 


114  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

her  unformed  mind  if  I  can  once  subju- 
gate her  fiery  spirit.  She  can  be  as  sweet 
and  docile  as  a  cooing  dove  to  her  sister, 
whom  she  fairly  idolizes.  They  have  im- 
bibed the  universal  prejudice  against  the 
unfortunate  stepmother,  and  a  dozen  times 
a  day  I  am  reminded  of  my  position. 
Only  yesterday  I  prepared  a  delicate  cube 
of  toast,  which  I  sent  up  with  a  cup  of 
chocolate  to  the  sick-room.  The  old  col- 
ored woman  took  it  with  apparent  pleasure 
to  her  young  mistress,  but  I  heard  her  say 
as  she  entered : 

" '  Dere  aint  enuff  to  make  you  sick, 
honey.  It  am  a  stepmother's  piece,  suah.' 

"  My  cheek  flushed  at  the  injustice  of  it. 
My  heart  grew  sick  and  faint  with  hope 
deferred.  I  cried  out  in  my  disappoint- 
ment, '  How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long 
must  I  wait?  Cannot  this  bitter  cup  pass 
by ! '  Richard  does  not  know  how  much 
I  am  called  upon  to  endure.  I  will  not 
prejudice  his  mind  against  his  children  or 
acquaint  him  with  the  many  pin-pricks  of 
misery  which  I  suffer  every  day.  But  I 


WE   HAVE   BEEN   FRIENDS.  115 

do  not  despair.  When  you  come  here  I 
hope  to  meet  you  with  those  dear  children 
clinging  about  me  and  calling  me  by  the 
sacred  name  of  mother.  The  oldest  one — 
Marcia — would  be  beautiful  were  she  not 
a  confirmed  invalid.  The  other — Cherry — 
I  find  her  name  is  a  corruption  of  'Cherie,' 
the  name  given  to  her  by  her  mother — is  a 
wild,  lovely  creature,  who  is  only  half  civil- 
ized and  completely  ignorant,  not  even 
knowing  how  to  read  or  write.  It  would 
be  a  delightful  task  to  teach  her,  but  I 
must  first  tame  her.  There  are  reasons, 
if  they  only  knew,  why  those  children 
should  smooth  the  way  for  me,  since  their 
own  mother  did  me  a  cruel  wrong.  Pray, 
Edgar,  that  I  may  do  my  whole  duty  in 
this  matter.  Ever  your  loving  friend, 

"  BEATRICE." 

"  P.  S. — Since  writing  the  above  I  have 
seen  your  picture  in  the  possession  of 
Marcia,  the  sick  girl.  What  does  it  mean  ? 
Am  I  not  worthy  of  your  confidence,  my 
friend?  I  acknowledge  that  my  curiosity 
is  aroused.  BEATRICE." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SHAMMING. 

The  social  life  of  Sparta  was  a  varied 
and  conglomerate  pattern  of  different  en- 
semblance  of  a  local  type.  The  minister, 
his  wife  and  daughter,  and  their  friends, 
the  few  families  who  were  wealthy  and 
powerful  enough  to  form  an  exclusive  so- 
ciety of  their  own,  and  a  sprinkling  of 
official  dignitaries,  colonels,  majors,  judges 
and  other  titled  civilians  who  had  blue 
blood  in  their  veins,  or  related  to  it,  were 
inclined  to  do  as  they  pleased,  and  be  a 
law  unto  themselves.  Among  these  Judge 
Marsden  ranked,  enveloped  in  a  mantle  of 
purple  glory  of  the  past,  which  hung  about 
him  like  a  pall.  As  he  had  always  pre- 
ferred drinking  bouts  with  Major  Krum  to 
invitations  to  dinners  and  teas,  he  had 
dropped  out  of  the  family  circle  composed 

of  wives   and    daughters,  and   when    these 
116 


SHAMMING.  117 

hospitalities  had  been  extended  to  the 
children  they  had  been  ignored  in  uncivil 
silence  until  they  ceased  to  come. 

"If  they  can  live  'thout  us  I  reckon  we 
can  get  along  'thout  them,"  was  the  for- 
midable edict  of  dismissal. 

The  fact  was  Marcia  could  not  go  be- 
cause she  would  not  humiliate  herself  by 
appearing  in  a  quaint  costume  behind  the 
times,  eked  out  of  her  mother's  wardrobe, 
and  Cherry  hated  people  she  did  not 
know — and  most  of  those  she  did  know, 
too,  poor  child.  They  laughed  at  her 
queer  ways,  her  patched-out  dress,  her  ab- 
rupt motions  and  her  ignorance  of  quilt- 
piecing,  crochet -work,  and  even  piano 
playing.  The  staid  housewives  of  the  place 
considered  her  a  little  out  of  her  head — 
queer — and  forbade  their  own  stupid,  proper 
children  from  associating  with  her. 

When  Mrs.  Judge  Marsden  walked  into 
church  with  her  husband  and  sat  in  the 
square  pew  of  the  Clyffes,  with  its  faded 
tapestry,  there  was  a  ripple  of  excitement, 
for  such  elegance  was  new  there,  and  there 


118  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

was  a  calm  dignity  in  the  handsome,  state- 
ly figure  and  well-bred  face  that  compelled 
both  notice  and  admiration.  Beatrice 
smiled  to  herself  as  she  saw  the  attention 
she  attracted,  but  the  smile  faded  as  she 
heard  in  a  distinct  whisper  near  her : 

"  She'll  make  those  children  toe  the 
mark." 

And  as  she  passed  out  between  two  lines 
of  gazing,  critical  eyes  her  cheeks  flushed 
with  indignation  as  the  omnipresent  word 
"stepmother"  smote  her  ear. 

But  she  found  one  friend.  It  was  a 
small-sized,  delicate  lady,  who  went  up  and 
held  out  her  hand.  "  We  are  so  glad  to 
see  you  here ;  my  husband " — indicating 
the  minister  who  had  just  preached — "  and 
I.  This  is  my  daughter  Grace.  Mr.  Ma- 
deira has  told  me  about  you.  May  I  come 
and  see  you?" 

"  I  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Bea- 
trice, fervently ;  "  and  oh,  do  come  soon." 

"This  very  week,"  replied  the  other; 
"  my  daughter  is  acquainted  with — with — 
your — the  young  ladies." 


'Tell  us  something  funny,"  piped  Cherry.     (Page  61.) 


SHAMMING.  9 

"  She  is  afraid  to  say  '  your  daughters/  " 
thought  Beatrice.  "All  Sparta  knows,  prob- 
ably, that  they  refuse  to  be  conciliated  or 
to  regard  me  as  other  than  a  tyrannical 
step-mother." 

And  the  following  week  Mrs.  Madeira 
kept  her  promise  and  went  to  call  on  the 
Judge's  wife. 

She  was  astonished  at  the  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  the  decayed  old  man- 
sion, at  the  neatness  and  order  which  made 
the  place  respectable  and  a  fit  abode  for 
Christian  people.  She  was  delighted  with 
the  new  mistress,  who  received  her  in  such 
an  easy,  friendly  fashion,  and  at  the  close 
of  a  long  visit  ventured  to  ask  after  the 
two  girls,  calling  them  by  their  given 
names.  "  Marcia  used  to  be  quite  friendly 
with  Grace,"  she  observed. 

"What  changed  the  relation?"  inquired 
Beatrice,  with  interest. 

"I  could  not — that  is — Grace  did  not 
like  to  come  here  to  visit  her.  You  must 
know,  dear  Mrs.  Marsden,  that  a  house 
with  no  woman  at  its  head  is  not  the 


120  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

p*. ice  for  young  girls.  The  children  run 
wild.  They  were  good  girls — no  one  will 
ever  dispute  that — but  it  is  wonderful  that 
they  escaped  as  they  have.  Marcia  was 
sent  away  to  school  and  came  home  ill. 
She  has  never  been  up  since,  but  we  think 
— that  is,  people  here  say " 

"What  do  people  say?"  asked  Beatrice, 
coldly.  To  her  loyal  and  honest  nature 
this  gossip  about  her  stepdaughters  was 
extremely  distasteful,  yet  she  hoped  to 
gain  some  clue  to  their  natures  by  which 
she  might  be  able  to  benefit  them. 

"  Why,  that  Marcia  is  only  shamming 
illness." 

"  Shamming ! "  exclaimed  Beatrice.  "How 
unkind  !  How  unjust ! " 

"  I  thought  so,  too,  at  first,  but  Mr. 
Madeira  has  had  much  experience  as  spir- 
itual physician  in  this  place,  and  he  tells 
me  that  it  is  a  common  occurrence,  and 
that  a  certain  belt  of  country  in  this  state 
is  noted  for  its  imaginary  invalids — people 
who  have  no  disease,  but  simply  lose  their 
wills  and  lie  abed  year  in  and  year  out." 


SHAMMING.  121 

"You  astonish  me,"  was  all  Beatrice 
could  say  in  response.  After  a  moment's 
thought  she  inquired  : 

"But  what  of  the  fainting  spells,  the 
long  sleep,  the  want  of  strength?  These 
are  not  imaginary  disorders." 

"All  results  of  that  morbid  state  of 
mind  which  exaggerates  every  disturbed 
feeling  into  the  proportions  of  a  disease. 
You  would  see  Marcia  use  her  limbs  if 
there  were  any  sudden  necessity, — if  the 
house  were  on  fire,  and  she  could  not 
escape  otherwise.  It  may  be  that  this 
condition  is  a  disease  in  itself,  but  I  am 
sure  it  is  mental  and  not  physical." 

A  thought  flashed  through  Beatrice's  mind 
like  an  inspiration. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  cure  her,"  she  said  to 
herself. 

"  I  cannot  understand  how  any  one, 
particularly  a  young  person,  can  accept 
the  role  of  an  invalid,  or  be  voluntarily 
immured  in  the  loneliness  of  a  sick-room. 
Health  seems  the  greatest  of  all  blessings 
to  me,"  she  remarked  at. last. 


!22  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  It  is  surely  a  disease  of  the  mind;  an 
.'ibnormal  condition,"  said  Mrs.  Madeira. 
"  1  have  sometimes  thought  that  possibly 
Marcia  realized  that  she  was  different  from 
other  girls,  and  was  mortified  over  it.  I 
am  sure,  Mrs.  Marsden,  you  will  pardon 
me  for  speaking  of  this,  but  you  must  see 
the  difference.  Knowing  the  family  as  we 
do  we  can  make  excuses,  but  strangers  will 
not  do  this ;  they  look  upon  the  children 
as  we  might  upon  Indians  just  learning 
our  modes  of  civilization." 

"  Poor  children,"  murmured  Beatrice.  A 
divine  pity  swelled  in  her  heart  for  the 
proud,  sensitive  natures  that  had  been  so 
cruelly  misunderstood. 

"  They  shall  yet  take  their  places  where 
they  belong,  in  the  highest  and  most  cult- 
ured society  in  the  land,"  she  said,  with 
dignity. 

"  I  am  sure  they  will,"  responded  her 
visitor,  warmly.  "  But  you  have  a  work 
to  do.  Oh,  my  dear,  have  courage;  be 
strong;  there  is  a  beautiful  promise:  'As 
thy  day  is  shall  thy  strength  be ';  lay  hold 


SHAMMING.  123 

of  that  and  GoA  will  surely  give  you  the 
victory." 

"Amen,"  answered  Beatrice,  solemnly; 
and  soon  Mrs.  Madeira  took  her  leave,  and 
Beatrice  went  to  her  room  and  sat  down 
to  think.  The  more  she  thought  the  more 
perplexed  and  worried  she  became,  and  at 
last  she  threw  herself  on  her  knees  and 
prayed  for  help^— prayed  so  long  and  ear- 
nestly that  half  her  burden  seemed  to  slip 
off,  and  she  rose  comforted  and  strength- 
ened for  whatever  the  future  held  in  store 
for  her. 

Then  she  went  directly  to  Marcia's  room. 
No  answer  was  returned  to  her  knock,  so 
she  ventured  to  enter  unbidden.  The  in- 
valid was  sleeping.  Letters  were  clasped 
in  her  folded  hands  and  the  picture  Bea- 
trice had  seen  before  lay  upon  an  open 
book.  The  stepmother  took  it  up  and  re- 
garded it  long  and  lovingly.  Then  she 
laid  it  down  with  a  sigh  as  the  sick  girl 
opened  her  eyes. 

"  Will  you  not  try  to  sit  up  a  lit- 
tle ? "  Beatrice  asked,  gently.  "  It  will 


124  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

give  you  strength  and  yo*u  will  rest  better 
at  night." 

"Where  is  Cherry?"  asked  Marcia,  wildly. 
"Why  is  she  not  here?  I  wish  you  would 
leave  me  alone.  Why  does  not  Cherry  stay 
to  guard  me  from  intruders?" 

"  You  were  guarded,"  whispered  Beatrice, 
in  a  low,  loving  voice.  "  I,  your  mother, 
watched  you  while  you  slept." 

"  You  are  not  my  mother,"  retorted  the 
sick  girl,  angrily.  "  My  father's  wife  you 
may  be,  but  you  cannot  fill  my  dear  dead 
mother's  place,  you  are  not  worthy  to " 

"  Hush  !  "  cried  Beatrice,  rising  with  dig- 
nity and  speaking  in  a  commanding  tone. 
"  You  shall  not  speak  to  me  with  disre- 
spect— you  who  are  false  to  yourself  and 
unworthy  of  the  regard  of  man  or  woman, — 
you  who  chose  to  shelter  yourself  in  a 
fraudulent  weakness  and  assumed  illness. 
I  will  no  longer  encourage  your  silly,  idle 
fancies  or  allow  you  to  be  treated  as  a  sick 
child.  If  you  are  so  devoted  to  the  mem- 
ory of  your  mother  show  yourself  worthy 
of  her,  and  take  her  place  in  the  household, 


SHAMMING.  125 

When  you  do  this  /  will  find  a  home  else- 
where. Since  I  cannot  win  your  love  x  ,vill 
at  least  demand  your  respect." 

With  indignant  stateliness  the  step- 
mother left  the  room,  and  the  aroused  and 
frightened  girl  now  felt  for  the  first  Urne 
the  salutary  smart  of  discipline. 

That  night  Cherry  did  not  appear  at  the 
supper-table,  but  this  was  too  common  an 
occurrence  to  call  forth  any  comment  from 
her  father.  Besides,  the  judge  was  not 
thinking  of  his  daughter,  refractory  though 
she  might  be. 

"  Seen  Krum  lately?"  he  asked,  buttering 
his  hot  corn-bread  and  spreading  on  it  a 
generous  layer  of  honey. 

"The  Major?  Yes;  I  saw  him  a  moment 
yesterday  and  refused  his  request  to  see 
Marcia.  Oh,  Richard,  do  you  think  Marcia 
is  seriously  ill  ?" 

"Seriously — dangerously,  do  you  mean?" 
"  I  guess  not,"  answered  the  Judge,  indif- 
ferently. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Beatrice,  in  a  hesitating 
voice,  "do  you  believe  that  she  is  ill  at  all?" 


126  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  Why,  Beatrice,  what  is  the  matter  with 
you  ?  D'  you  s'pose  Marsh  would  stay  hived 
up  in  that  room  all  alone  if  she  wasn't  sick, 
hey?" 

"  Yes  •  I  do,"  answered  his  wife  ;  "  and 
Richard,  I  believe  she  is  no  more  sick  than 
you  or  I  are.  And  I  want  you  to  help  me 
:f  I  insist  upon  getting  her  up  and  making 
her  well." 

"  Gad !  that's  the  stepmother  of  it," 
groaned  the  Judge. 

"  You  have  no  right  to  say  so,"  answered 
Beatrice,  warmly.  "  I  cannot  ignore  my 
responsibilities  here,  Richard,  as  you  do 
yours.  I  want  to  be  a  true  mother  to 
those  girls — to  help  them  into  becoming 
good  and  useful  women  and  fulfilling  their 
destinies  as  valuable  members  of  society. 
I  have  a  stewardship  to  account  for.  My 
dear  husband,  how  can  you  regard  so  lightly 
your  unfulfilled  duties?  " 

"You  are  so  terribly  in  earnest,  Beatrice," 
said  the  Judge  in  an  injured  tone.  "  One 
would  think  I  was  the  worst  father  in  the 
world  just  because  I'm  not  always  hetch- 


SHAMMING.  127 

eling,  those  poor  children.  Now  looV  hydr, 
Krum  has  turned  over  a  new  )eaf  I 
don't  half  like  it,  eyether.  He  won't 
drink,  an'  ain't  half  the  old  man  he  ined 
to  be.  But  that  ain't  all.  He's  gone  :nto 
real  estate.  Now  where  did  he  g<°t  ^he 
money?  He  hasn't  a  dollar  'n'  never 
had.  He  says  an  angel  lent  it  to  Hm ! 
Nice  financeerin',  that,  for  angels !" 

Beatrice  looked  red  and  confused.  The 
Judge  regarded  her  sharply  and  drew  his 
own  conclusions.  No  more  was  said  unon 
the  subject  then. 

That  night  Beatrice  could  not  sleep.  The 
weather  was  fine  and  clear,  and  wrapping 
herself  in  a  shawl  she  sat  by  her  window 
and  looked  out  on  the  night.  Sad  thoughts 
possessed  her.  The  days  of  her  school  life 
came  back  to  her.  What  great  deeds  she 
had  planned  in  the  exultant  powers  of  her 
youth !  What  had  life  brought  her  but 
trial  and  disappointment?  She  thought  of 
a  tiny  grave  among  the  many  in  that  far-off 
eastern  cemetery,  Mount  Hope.  What  a 
mockery  the  name  was!  The  little  one 


128  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

vesting  there  had  never  called  her  mother. 
Sne  nad  only  felt  the  flutter  of  her  birdling's 
wings  when  they  had  made  room  for  it 
.111  paradise  and  given  it  "angel  plumage" 
ihere.  She  remembered  how  dead  her  heart 
nad  been  until  quickened  by  that  sweet, 
mysterious  love.  There  was  another  grave 
uiere.  That  of  the  good  man  to  whom  she 
had  borne  the  name  of  wife,  the  father  of 
ner  dear  dead  baby.  Well,  she  had  made 
mm  happy.  She  had  done  more.  She  had 
tescued  the  old  name  from  the  dirt  of  in- 
famy and  saved  his  boy  from  that  death  of 
the  soul  that  is  so  terrible.  She  looked 
up  at  the  fair  southern  moon  floating  in  the 
cloud-flecked  blue,  and  felt  comforted. 
God  knew  she  was  trying  to  do  her  duty. 
He  was  trying  her  again,  but  it  would  all 
be  right  by  and  by.  She  could  hear  the 
sounds  of  merriment,  with  which  she  had 
nothing  to  do,  from  some  distant  out-door 
gathering,  a  barbecue  or  a  wedding  among 
"  the  hands,"  and  the  barking  of  hounds, 
disturbed  by  the  tooting  of  horns  and  the 
noise  of  the  fiddler.  She  heard  something 


SHAMMING.  1.31 

else,  too, — the  house-door  opening  softly. 
Thieves?  More  likely  Cherry  returning 
from  forbidden  nocturnal  rambles,  which 
filled  the  soul  of  her  new  mother  with 
apprehensions.  Beatrice  looked  carefully 
and  saw  two  shadows,  one  was  Mammy  in 
her  cloak  and  sunbonnet,  the  other  was 
beyond  doubt  the  rollicking  Cherry,  dressed 
in  some  light,  fantastic  costume  that  was  but 
ill-concealed  under  a  careless  shawl.  They 
stepped  out  slowly  and  softly,  and  soon  dis- 
appeared among  the  trees. 

Moved  by  an  impulse  she  did  not  wait  to 
investigate,  Beatrice  threw  on  some  dis- 
guising wrappings  and  hastened  after  them, 
determined  to  see  for  herself  if  there  was 
danger  to  Cherry  in  those  night  rambles,  or 
if  she  were,  indeed,  safe  in  Mammy's  com- 
pany. It  was  less  difficult  to  keep  them  in 
sight  than  it  was  to  prevent  herself  being 
seen,  and  she  was  thoroughly  tired  and  ex- 
hausted when  at  last  they  reached  their 
destination,  an  out-door  dance  in  a  place 
known  as  "the  grove,"  where  the  wild  and 
lawless  young  people  of  Sparta  met  by 


132  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

appointment,  protected  only  by  the  com- 
pany of  servants  who  had  seen  them  grow 
up  and  would  shed  their  last  drop  of  blood 
in  behalf  of  the  young  Master  or  Missy 
under  their  care.  Blazing  torches  illumi- 
nated the  boarded  square  set  up  for  a  danc- 
ing-Moor, and  an  old  uncle,  with  bushy  white 
locks  and  a  good-humored,  shrewd  black 
lace,  sawed  a  violin,  to  which  the  dancers 
kept  time,  while  from  a  singular  looking 
mound  near  a  smell  of  good  cooking  ema- 
nated, several  pigs  and  a  'possum  being 
roasted  there  with  sage  and  onions,  and 
a  bushel  or  so  of  apples.  Beatrice  slipped 
under  the  shade  of  a  dwarf  oak  and  watched 
a  scene  that  was  new  and  most  picturesque 
and  attractive  to  her,  albeit  she  was  shiver- 
ing with  fear.  She  saw  the  two  figures 
she  had  followed  enter  into  the  waning  and 
fantastic  light  made  by  the  torches  and  the 
moonlight,  and  other  figures  come  forward 
and  join  them.  She  saw  Major  Krum 
take  Mammy's  arm  and  lead  her  with  re- 
spectful deference  to  a  seat,  then  place  him- 
self at  her  feet — and  then  she  rubbed  her 


SHAMMING.  133 

eyes  and  looked  again.  Were  there  two 
of  Mammy?  For  this  fat,  turbaned  and 
beaming  apparition  carrying  a  load  of  dishes 
with  the  readiest  alacrity,  was  without  any 
mistake  the  veritable  Mammy  of  Clyffe 
House,  although  her  counterpart  sat  there 
in  the  keeping  of  Major  Krum.  Beatrice 
waited  and  watched  with  heating  pulses. 
Then  she  saw  the  old  slat  sunbonnet  thrown 
back  and  the  cloak  drop  away  from  that 
other  figure.  She  saw  a  white  hand,  a 
white  face,  and  at  the  moment  when  Cherry 
sprang  into  the  dance  and  whirled  with  the 
others  to  the  wild  music,  the  face  and  form 
in  Mammy's  disguise  became  clearly  visible. 
Beatrice  turned  away  sick  at  heart  as  she 
recognized  Marcia. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME? 

At  a  certain  distribution  of  the  morning 
mail  in  the  office  of  the  Day  Star  a.  letter  was 
handed  to  Edgar  Harrington  bearing  a  south- 
ern postmark.  He  was  reading  a  galley  of 
proof,  and  took  the  letter  mechanically  and 
without  looking  at  it  threw  it  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

Young  Weir,  familiarly  known  heretofore 
as  Rob,  was  in  his  place  at  the  desk  he  occu- 
pied, but  he  was  not  at  work.  Paper  and 
pencil  were  before  him,  but  Rob  was  occu- 
pied with  watching  the  movements  of  Mr. 
Harrington  at  the  moment  when  the  mail  was 
distributed.  He  saw  him  take  the  letter 
which  the  office  boy  handed  him  contrary 
to  his — Rob's — express  directions,  and  now 
his  brain  was  turned  upside  down  trying  to 
plan  a  way  to  possess  himself  of  it.  The 
youth  was  learning  that  it  is  always 

"A  tangled  web  we  weave 
When  first  we  practice  to  deceive." 
134 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  135 

Rob's  heart  beat  like  a  trip-hammer, 
his  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  his  bright, 
honest  eyes  had  an  ugly,  crafty  look  in 
them,  as  he  watched  his  friend  in  that  sly, 
sinister  way.  He  had  stepped  out  of  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  of  integrity, 
"  just  for  fun."  Now  he  would  have  given 
much  to  know  that  he  was  safely  back  in 
it  again. 

Mr.  Harrington  found  something  to  dis- 
please him  in  his  proof,  and  stepped  hurriedly 
into  the  composing-room  to  correct  it. 
When  he  came  back  his  mind  reverted  to 
the  letter,  and  he  looked  for  it  on  his  desk. 
It  was  gone. 

"Rob!" 

That  voice  sounded  like  a  thunder-peal  in 
the  guilty  ears  of  the  youth  in  question,  but 
he  made  no  sign  of  hearing  it.  Presently 
there  was  another  call,  and  this  time  he 
turned  an  innocent  and  surprised  face  to- 
ward his  questioner. 

"Did  you  speak,  Mr.  Harrington?" 

"  Yes,  Rob.  Did  you  see  anything  of  a 
letter  on  my  desk?" 


136  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  I  saw  you  take  one  from  the  boy,  sir ; 
perhaps  you  put  it  in  the  desk." 

This  was  tantamount  to  a  denial,  and  Mr. 
Harrington  at  once  proceeded  to  rummage 
his  desk,  and  not  finding  it  there  he  retraced 
his  steps  to  the  composing-room  in  the  vain 
hope  that  he  had  dropped  the  letter  there. 
He  was  the  more  anxious  because  he  was 
expecting  a  letter  he  had  need  of  from  a 
distant  and  cherished  friend  whose  written 
words  of  wisdom  and  good  counsel  fortified 
his  soul  against  the  daily  temptations  that 
assailed  his  weaker  nature.  He  was  disap- 
pointed and  annoyed. 

There  was  a  third  person  present  who  had 
seemed  oblivious  of  all  that  was  going  on. 
This  was  the  gay  and  debonair  Howland, 
with  a  fresh  jacqueminot  rose  in  his  button- 
hole and  the  same  old  sneer  on  his  hand- 
some mouth.  He  looked  up  at  the  perplexed 
face  of  Edgar  Harrington,  and  asked,  indif- 
ferently : 

"  Lost  anything,  Mr.  Harrington  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  person  addressed ; 
"  I  have  lost  a  valuable  letter." 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  137 

"Money  in  it,  eh?" 

"Is  nothing  valuable  in  your  eyes  but 
money,  Rowland?"  asked  the  other  man, 
sadly. 

"  Nothing.  I  would  sell  everybody  be- 
longing to  me  for  a  goodly  share  of  filthy 
lucre.  My  purse  is  my  best  friend." 

"Then  you  are  poor,  indeed,"  retorted 
Harrington.  "  I  wish  I  could  find  that  let- 
ter," he  continued,  regretfully. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  ears, 
Rob?"  inquired  Rowland, suddenly.  "They 
are  as  red  as  boiled  lobsters.  Somebody 
must  be  talking  about  you." 

"  Let  them  talk,"  growled  Rob,  with  mur- 
der in  his  heart. 

Edgar  Harrington  looked  at  the  two  a 
moment  with  sudden  suspicion.  He  had 
been  the  victim  of  misplaced  confidence 
more  than  once  in  his  life,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment a  thought  flashed  into  his  mind — 
could  these  two  be  conspiring  against  him  ? 
Nonsense  !  The  boy  loved  him,  he  was  sure 
of  that.  True,  he  had  been  obliged  to  dis- 
cipline him  more  than  once.  He  had  used 


138  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

his  authority  without  any  right  to  do  so 
when  it  was  needed,  but  Rob  had  thanked 
him  after  his  fit  of  petulance  and  disappoint- 
ment wore  off.  In  caring  for  the  youth  he 
had  found  healthy  work  for  himself;  they 
had  been  like  brothers.  What  could  come 
between  them? 

I  suppose  there  are  indications  of  a  dis- 
turbance in  the  moral  atmosphere  which  are 
as  marked  and  distinct  as  the  falling  barom- 
eter in  elemental  storms.  Edgar  Harring- 
ton felt  that  something  was  wrong.  When 
a  chill  creeps  over  the  head  in  that  eerie, 
uncanny  way  that  it  does  sometimes,  people 
who  are  superstitious  say  that  some  one  is 
walking  over  the  spot  where  your  grave  will 
be.  A  chill  passed  over  Edgar  Harrington's 
heart.  What  it  presaged  he  did  not  know. 

A  few  days  later  he  was  reading  the  proof- 
sheet  of  the  Sunday  Day  Star,  when  his  at- 
tention was  called  to  a  sketch  of  a  column's 
length  by  Hope  Glenn. 

"  A  rising  writer,"  said  the  editor-in-chief. 
I  would  like  to  engage  her  exclusively  for 
our  paper.  These  pathetic  sketches  are  al- 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME?  139 

ways  copied  extensively  by  our  contempora- 
ries, and  although  they  read  so  smoothly  art- 
difficult  to  write.  I  believe  you  have  been 
corresponding  with  her.  I  wish  you  would 
state  my  wish  to  have  her  for  a  regular  con- 
tributor." 

"I?"  exclaimed  Mr.  Harrington,  in  sur- 
prise. I  have  never  written  to  the  lady.  I 
do  not  even  know  where  she  lives  or  what 
her  real  name  is.  I  presume  Hope  Glenn 
is  her  incognito." 

"  I  handed  you  a  letter,  Mr.  Harrington, 
some  time  ago,  when  she  first  wrote  to 
us — and  a  manuscript — and  asked  you  to 
answer  it  personally,  and  I  supposed  you 
did  so." 

The  chief  spoke  severely ;  he  was  not 
accustomed  to  have  his  orders  trifled  with 
or  disobeyed.  Edgar  Harrington  could  not 
for  his  life  recall  the  incident. 

"  Her  home  is  in  Sparta,  Virginia,"  con- 
tinued the  chief.  "  And  she  is  evidently  a 
southern  girl  with  a  very  imaginative  mind, 
and  somewhat  romantic.  But  she  has  a  fine 
appreciation  of  the  powers  of  pathos  and 


140  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

sorrow,  and  works  up  some  exquisite  pict- 
ures into  prose-poems." 

"Sparta,"  murmured  the  surprised  Har- 
rington. "  Sparta;  why,  I  have  a  dear  friend 
there.  Can  it  be  possible  that  Hope 
Glenn  is  Beatrice.  I  will  write  and  ask 
her.  But  no ;  I  have  seen  the  writing,  and 
it  is  not  that  of  my  Beatrice.  It  is  some 
stranger.  I  wonder  why  I  take  such  an 
interest  in  the  name.  It  seems  to  fix  itself 
in  my  memory." 

"Who  is  corresponding  -with  Hope 
Glenn?"  asked  the  senior  of  the  editorial 
room,  looking  up  from  his  work. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  answer. 
Rob's  ears  blazed,  but  he  did  not  look  up. 

"  Rob,  are  you  in  correspondence  with 
her?"  was  the  next  question. 

"You — you  asked  me  to  write  to  her,'' 
stammered  Rob. 

"  Did  I  ?  Well,  I  am  going  to  write  to 
her  myself,  now,  engaging  her  as  a  regular 
contributor  at  a  liberal  price.  Just  let  me 
have  her  last  letter,  will  you,  Rob?  I 
would  like  to  see  the  handwriting." 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  141 

"  I  haven't  got  it,"  mumbled  Rob.  "  I 
lost  it — I  mean,  it  was  stolen — no,  it — I — " 
then  he  broke  down  hopelessly. 

"Rob!"  exclaimed  his  senior,  "have 
you  been  getting  up  a  flirtation  with  an 
unknown  lady,  who  may  be  a  grandmother 
for  all  you  know  of  her?  I  really  did 
give  you  credit  for  having  a  little  sense." 

What  an  immense  relief  to  Rob,  who 
felt  like  a  reprieved  criminal.  "  If  he  only 
knew,"  he  thought,  "that  I  have  been 
flirting,  or  whatever  he  would  call  it,  in 
his  name,  what  would  become  of  me  ? 
How  shall  I  ever  get  out  of  this  scrape?" 

Mr.  Harrington  pitied  Rob's  embar- 
rassment so  much  that  he  concluded  to 
wait  until  they  were  alone  before  he  in- 
sisted upon  seeing  the  letters.  Then  he 
resumed  the  proof-sheet,  and,  as  was  his 
frequent  custom,  read  paragraphs  aloud. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  so  wonderful  ir. 
those  wishy-washy  sketches  of  Hope 
Glenn's,"  sneered  Howland.  "  May  do  for 
women  and  children  to  snivel  over,  but  a 
man  needs  a  stronger  pabulum," 


142  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  Women  and  children  are  the  best 
critics  we  have,"  responded  Harrington, 
warmly ;  "  and  a  newspaper  article  that 
moves  either  to  laughter  or  tears  has  ful- 
filled its  mission.  Now  listen  to  this  brief 
story — it  is  a  picture  ;  the  old  man  goiny 
home  to  bury  his  old  wife — his  refusal  to 
believe  her  dead — his  faith  in  her  im- 
mortal youth — the  illusion  sustained  among 
such  every-day  relations  as  the  surround- 
ings of  a  railroad  car,  and  the  peaceful 
finale  which  unites  the  two.  It  is  touch- 
ingly  dramatic,  and  yet  full  of  actuality. 
Listen  to  it."  And  he  read  aloud  from 
the  paper  Hope  Glenn's  sketch. 


CHAPTER  X. 

WE  TWO. 

[  Written  for  the  Day  Star.] 

"It's  we  two,  and  we  two;  it's  we  two  for  aye; 
All  the  world  and  we  two.  and  heaven  be  our  stay." 

It  was  a  gay,  rollicking  party  that 
boarded  the  fast  express  train  going  east, 
and  as  it  was  late  and  the  cars  crowded  the 
noise  made  by  the  intruders  stirred  every 
one  to  anger,  and  their  ill-timed  mirth  and 
witticisms  were  received  with  wrath  and 
indignation.  The  leader  of  the  gay  com- 
pany was  a  noisy,  robust  youth,  overflow- 
ing with  an  abundance  of  animal  spirits, 
and  he  gave  the  indignant  passengers  a 
saucy  rejoinder  when  they  reproved  him  for 
disturbing  their  repose.  When  he  had  trav- 
ersed the  entire  line  of  cars  without  rind- 
ing a  vacant  seat  he  discovered  an  old  man 
sitting  alone,  but  apparently  guarding  a  re- 
served place  next  to  him.  Rapping  the 
143 


144  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

stranger  smartly  on  the  shoulder  the  pre- 
sumptuous youth  asked  if  he  might  sit 
down  by  him. 

"Eh — eh?"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  feeble 
voice.  "We  two  have  those  seats.  There 
isn't  any  room  for  you." 

The  young  fellow  sauntered  back  to  find 
his  friends  all  provided  for,  and  after  stroll- 
ing through  the  baggage  and  smoking-car 
he  returnee  and  observed  that  the  seat  by 
the  old  man  was  still  vacant.  The  aged 
passenger  seemed  to  be  dozing,  but  he 
responded  feebly  to  the  energetic  touch  of 
the  youth. 

"Look  here,"  said  the  young  man,  "let 
me  have  that  seat.  You  haven't  any  one 
with  you." 

"  Hush-sh! "  answered  the  other,  smiling; 
"  you'll  frighten  her  away.  Can't  you  see 
her  sittin'  there  a'  smilin',  with  her  long, 
pretty  curls,  and  with  the  white  dress  on 
that  she  was  married  in?  Mebbe  it  was  a 
fancy,  but  I  could  ha'  touched  her  before 
you  come — but  no,  no,  she's  in  there,  an' 
I'm — we  two  hev  lived  together  these  fifty 


WE  TWO.  145 

years  an'  more ;  it's  hard  to  be  separated 
now." 

The  young  man  had  seated  himself,  and 
he  paid  no  attention  to  the  old  man's 
maundering  talk,  till  he  heard  him  saying 
softly  over  and  over  :  "  Katy,  my  Katy ; 
Katy,  darlin' ! " 

At  that  he  listened,  for  Katy  was  the 
name  of  the  sweet-faced,  blue-eyed  girl  he 
loved,  and  even  now  he  was  6n  his  way 
to  make  her  his  wife. 

"Was  she  your  wife?"  he  asked,  with 
more  respect  in  his  voice ;  nor  could  he  have 
told  why  he  used  the  past  tense  as  he  did. 

"  My  wife,  my  love,  my  bride,"  was  the 
almost  incoherent  answer.  "  Oh !  it  was  a 
hard  world,  but  we  traveled  it  together. 
I  never  had  a  pleasure  that  Katy  didn't 
share  it  with  me ;  nor  a  sorrow  that  she 
didn't  help  me  bear.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  her,  young  man.  She  was  as 
straight  as  a  young  sapling  and  as  fair  in 
the  face  as  a  little  child  ;  her  hair  was  the 
color  of  the  buttercups  in  the  meadow. 
I'd  take  you  out  yonder  to  see  her  if 
10 


146  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

they'd  let  me,  but  they  wouldn't.  They 
say  she's  changed — she  never  changed  in 
my  eyes — though  her  hair  turned  snow 
white  like  the  blossom  of  the  magnolia. 
Then  I  knew  she  was  ripenin'  for  glory. 
There  never  was  any  but  we  two.  God 
didn't  send  any  children  to  bind  our  hearts 
or  break  them.  It's  cold  here,"  and  he 
sunk  back  and  shivered. 

"  I  wish  •!  could  think  so,"  answered  the 
youth,  yawning,  and  feeling  life  and  strength 
in  every  throb  of  his  riotous  blood.  "Are 
you  going  east?"  he  continued,  for  want 
of  something  else  to  say. 

"Yes,  an*  it's  a  long  journey.  I'm  goin* 
clear  back  to  the  sunrise — back  to  the  old 
home  in  Maine.  There  won't  be  a  soul  I 
knew  a  livin*  but  Katy.  She  hankered 
after  the  old  buryin'-ground  where  her 
folks  lay.  Say,"  as  the  conductor  of  the 
train  passed  along,  "is  she  all  right,  out 
there  alone?" 

"She's  all  right,"  said  the  conductor, 
swinging  his  lantern.  "  There  ain't  nuthin' 
as  will  disturb  her,  I  reckon," 


WE   TWO.  147 

"  She  is  with  her  I^ord,"  responded  the 
old  man,  solemnly ;  "  with  Him  she  loved 
and  served  all  the  days  of  her  life.  I 
s'pose  she  ain't  missed  me  or  thought  of 
me  onc't,  but  it  would  about  break  my 
heart  if  I  thought  heaven's  glory  could 
make  her  forget — if  we  two  couldn't  go 
hand  in  hand  there  as  we  have  here. 
Dear,  dear,  it  wouldn't  seem  a  bit  like 
heaven  'less  Katy  was  glad  to  see  me." 

The  young  traveler  fell  asleep  and  walked 
with  his  beloved  in  the  fair  bower  of  love's 
young  dream  in  the  land  of  sleep.  The 
old  man  gathered  his  feeble  limbs  together, 
and  he,  too,  slept,  but  his  lips  moved,  and 
broken,  incoherent  sentences  fell  on  the 
ears  of  those  about  him.  He,  too,  was 
walking  in  dreams  with  his  beloved,  but 
it  was  in  the  company  of  angels.  He 
babbled  of  still  waters  and  green  pastures ; 
he  sung  of  golden  streets  ^nd  gates  of 
pearl ;  of  the  beauties  and  the  mysteries 
of  the  many  mansions ;  of  the  peace  that 
floweth  as  a  river;  he  held  her  small, 
soft  hand  in  his  and  called  up  the  love- 


148  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

light    in    her    beautiful    eyes,    and    played 
with  her  yellow  hair : 

"Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride; 
It's  we  two,  and  we  two,  happy  side  by  side." 

And  all  the  time  the  train  went  on, 
flying  through  the  night,  and  out  in  the 
baggage-car  an  old,  old  woman,  wan  and 
wrinkled,'  lay  peacefully  in  her  coffin,  her 
veined  and  withered  hands  crossed  quietly 
over  a  heart  that  was  at  rest,  and  that 
was  all  that  was  mortal  of  the  old  man's 
Katy  darling. 

When  the  young  traveler  awoke  in  the 
bright  light  of  early  day  he  stretched  his 
cramped  limbs  and  felt  like  a  giant  re- 
freshed with  wine,  and  out  of  his  strength 
and  happiness  he  gave  the  old  man  at  his 
side  a  glad  "  Good-morning."  But  when 
getting  no  response  he  turned  to  look  at 
him,  he  saw  that  he  had  reached  the  new 
sunrise — the  *norning  that  has  never  any 
noon. 

"  It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  while  the  world's  away, 
Sitting  by  the  golden  sheaves  on   our  wedding-day." 

When  Harrington  had  finished  Howland 


WE  TWO.  149 

was  gone  out  of  the  room,  and  Rob  sat 
at  his  desk  the  picture  of  despair. 

"  Now,  Rob,"  said  his  senior,  "  let  me 
have  those  letters." 

"No,  sir!"  answered  the  young  man,  in  a 
determined  tone;  "those  letters  are  mine." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  your  correspondence 
with  Miss — Hope  Glenn — or  whatever  the 
lady's  name  is — has  been  of  a  confidential 
and  personal  nature?" 

"That  is  just  what  I  mean,  sir,"  answered 
Rob,  wiping  the  cold  dew  of  self-sacrifice 
from  his  beardless  cheek.  "  I  am  not  the 
man,"  he  continued,  in  an  inflated  tone  of 
importance,  "  to  betray  the  trust  reposed 
in  me  by  a  woman." 

"  Live  up  to  that,  Rob,"  said  the  senior, 
gently.  "  And  now,  since  you  will  not  give 
me  a  clue  to  the  lady's  character  or  posi- 
tion by  a  glimpse  at  her  writing,  I  must 
do  the  best  I  can  without  it." 

"  Mr.  Harrington,"  began  Rob,  in  a  tone 
of  expostulation,  "  don't  write  to  her  at 
all.  Let  me  say  what  you  would  write.  1 
promise  to  give  it  word  for  word." 


150  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  No,  my  boy  ;  orders  must  be  obeyed, 
and  this  business  has  been  entrusted  to 
me.  But  what  difference  can  it  make  to 
you?  Are  you  jealous?  If  you  wish  you 
can  read  the  letter  before  I  mail  it." 

"  It  isn't  that,"  said  Rob,  looking  utterly 
wretched.  "  I'm  not  even  in  love ;  at  least 
I  don't  think  I  am." 

"What  then,  you  foolish  boy?" 

"  Oh,  sir — Mr.  Harrington — you  have  been 
such  a  friend  to  me,  and  I  have  done  such 
a  dishonorable  thing ! " 

"  You  dishonorable  ?  I  hope  not,  Rob. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  be  disappointed  in 
you  when  I  have  loved  you  like  a  brother." 

"  You  will  despise  me  when  you  know 
all,  and  yet,  Mr.  Harrington,  it  was  you  who 
gave  me  leave  to  begin  it.  Only  I  should 
have  stopped  there." 

"  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,"  said  Harring- 
ton, coldly. 

It  was  hard  in  the  face  of  such  severity 
to  tell  the  truth,  but  Rob  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it  and  did  not  spare  himself.  He 
told  his  friend  how  he  had  written  first  a 


WE  TWO.  151 

friendly  business  letter  according  to  his  in- 
structions ;  how  the  answer  had  piqued 
his  curiosity  and  he  had  written  again,  and 
finally  Hope  Glenn  had  asked  him  for  a 
picture,  and  he 

"  Whose  picture  did  you  send  ?  "  asked 
Harrington,  in  a  voice  that  sent  all  the 
color  from  Rob's  face. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  young  man 
fixed  his  sorry  eyes  on  his  desk  and  listened 
to  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"So  you  not  only  write  letters  to  this 
unknown  lady,  masquerading  over  my  name, 
but  you  send  her  my  photograph  as  proof 
positive  that  I  am  the  fool  she  takes  me 
to  be.  I  would  rather  you  dishonored  me 
commercially,  Rob,  than  used  my  name  for 
such  a  purpose.  Dishonesty  in  friendship 
is  akin  to  perjury.  You  may  have  done 
the  crudest  wrong  with  your  fictitious  love- 
making." 

"They  were  not  love-letters,  Mr.  Har- 
rington," asserted  Rob.  "At  least  not 
what  I  would  call  love-letters.  They  were 
not  very  personal.  I  tried  to  be  dignified 


152  HER  DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

and  grave,  like  you,  sir,  in  what  I  said. 
I — I  don't  think  you  would  be  ashamed  of 
them  sir." 

"  Rob,"  asked  the  other,  after  a  long  silenc. , 
"are  you  in  love  with  this  unknown  writer?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Rob,  decidedly;  "  I  am 
not.  And  I  never  should  be  in  love  with 
any  woman  who  wrote  for  the  newspapers  or 
knew  enough  to.  When  I  fall  in  love  with 
any  one,  Mr.  Harrington,  it  will  be  with  a 
girl  who  is  ignorant." 

"  There  you  would  make  the  greatest  mis- 
take of  your  life,  Rob.  An  ignorant  woman 
is  narrow,  stupid  and  bigoted.  If  she  were 
as  beautiful  as  an  angel  you  would  weary 
of  her  and  her  insipid  company." 

"  But  I  would  teach  her,  sir.  If  she  loved 
me  she  would  be  willing  to  learn  to  please 
me." 

"  Rob,  do  you  remember  how  David 
Copperfield  taught  Dora,  his  little  child-wife, 
and  what  the  result  was  ?  " 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  I  am  such  a  prig 
as  that  Copperfield  boy?  I  should  have 
thought  Dora  perfect  just  as  she  was." 


WE   TWO.  153 

"  No  doubt.  But  about  those  letters:  I  do 
not  know  what  to  do.  They  are  postmarked 
from  the  same  town  where  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine  lives.  I  might  learn  through  her  if 
any  harm  has  been  done.  But  Hope  Glenn 
is  a  fictitious  name ;  it  may  not  be  known 
there.  I  hardly  know  what  to  do." 

But  that  night  Edgar  Harrington  received 
a  letter  which  offered  a  solution  to  one  prob- 
lem white  it  presented  another.  Hurrying 
to  Rob's  quarters  he  burst  in  upon  him  with 
precipitate  haste. 

"  Be  ready  to  leave  with  me  in  an  hour. 
Take  those  letters  with  you." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Rob,  with  white  lips. 

"  It  is  that  your  miserable  fooling  has  re- 
sulted in  great  sorrow  and  trouble  to  the 
dearest  friend  I  have  on  earth.  Get  ready. 
I  will  tell  you  all  I  know  on  the  way." 

When  the  Susquehanna  Valley  train  drew 
out  that  night  Harrington  and  Rob  were 
both  on  board. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NOBODY  KNOWS. 

Mammy  had  been  very  slow  to  recognize 
the  right  of  her  new  mistress  to  expect  or 
exact  habits  of  respectful  obedience  to  her. 
It  was  not  the  native  stubbornness  of  her 
own  race  that  prevented  her,  but  she  was 
encouraged  in  her  spirit  of  aggressiveness 
by  the  conduct  of  the  two  girls — her  "  young 
ladies,"  as  she  always  called  them.  Mam- 
my herself  had  been  raised  to  the  strictest 
habits  of  discipline.  It  had  never  been 
permitted  to  her  in  the  old  rule  under  "  Miss 
Marie "  to  have  a  voice  in  any  matter. 
"  Hers  not  to  make  reply,"  was  an  invincible 
law.  But  since  those  days  Mammy  had  been 
almost,  her  own  mistress.  It  was  the  law  of 
love  that  compelled  her  to  obey  the  children 

in  every  foolish  request.     Their  way  was  her 
154 


NOBODY   KNOWS.  155 

way  at  all  times.  She  believed  it  a  religious 
duty  to  assist  the  two  girls  in  their  domestic 
rebellions.  In  anything  she  undertook  she 
was  as  obstinate  as  those  who  combine  igno- 
rance and  prejudice  in  their  natures  always 
are.  Beatrice  had  made  a  great  allowance 
for  her,  because  hers  had  been  almost  en- 
tirely a  service  of  love.  She  had  clung  to 
the  family  through  good  report  and  evil 
report,  had  scorned  to  take  advantage  of  the 
freedom  thrust  upon  her,  and  had  been  a 
faithful  though  most  injudicious  friend  of 
the  motherless  girls. 

The  morning  after  the  escapade  related 
in  a  preceding  chapter  Mrs.  Marsden  went 
down  to  the  kitchen  with  a  heavy  heart. 
She,  who  had  all  her  life  held  principle  so 
dear,  found  herself  now  allied  with  those 
who  seemed  entirely  void  of  that  integral 
jewel,  the  ballast  of  all  moral  adventure. 
She  was  not  only  thoroughly  shocked  at 
Marcia's  deceit  in  regard  to  her  assumed  ill- 
ness and  inability  to  move,  but  she  was  sore- 
ly disappointed  in  the  fact  that  the  whole 
household  aided  and  abetted  her  in  it. 


156  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

Cherry — the  Major — Mammy — how  did  she 
kno\v  but  what  her  own  father  was  cognizant 
of  her  extraordinary  masquerade  ?  How 
could  she  deal  with  people  who  seemed  so 
morally  obtuse? 

Mammy  was  snapping  a  brittle  sheet  of 
dough  for  Maryland  biscuit,  and  the  gener- 
ous white  apron  she  wore  was  one  of  Bea- 
trice's own  making,  worn  only  on  compulsion. 
But  it  made  her  large  proportions  very  home- 
like and  attractive,  and  as  she  worked  she 
sung  in  a  rich,  untutored  voice  the  hymns  of 
her  people.  Beatrice  was  charmed  with  the 
new  and  picturesque  side  of  the  situation. 
It  was  so  different  from  the  sloppy,  intelli- 
gence-office girl  of  the  north,  who  never 
waited  to  resent  anything,  but  folded  her 
tent  and  stole  away.  The  biscuit  dough  in 
Mammy's  clean  hands  snapped,  and  as  she 
sung  she  wagged  her  turbaned  head  from 
side  to  side  in  a  weird,  antiphonal  chant,  that 
was  solemn  and  sad.  Beatrice  hesitated  to 
enter  the  kitchen,  as  an  intruder  might 
have  done.  It  seemed  to  her  there  was  no 
place  either  in  home  or  hearts  for  her.  And 


NOBODY   KNOWS.  157 

yet  Mammy's  voice  went  on  softly  and  gra- 
ciously : 

"Ober  Jordan,  ober  Jordan,  dere  is  our  home, 

O  my  king. 
Ober  Jordan,  ober  Jordan,  we's  bound  to  roam, 

O  my  king. 

Dere  de  sweet  persimmons  grow, 
Dere  de  silver  waters  flow, 
Dere  I'se  gwine  to  meet  you  sho', 

O  my  king. 
Tears  like  dey  dat's  gone  befo', 

O  my  king, 
N'eber  comes  to  us  no  mo', 

O  my  king. 

But  we's  gwine  to  join  'em  where 
Jesus  sits  in  judgment  fair, 
An'  I'll  shout  in  glory  there, 

O  my  king." 

"  Mammy,'  said  Beatrice,  entering  as  the 
last  note  died  away,  "  where  were  you  last 
night?" 

Mammy  had  started,  and  for  a  moment 
stared  at  her  mistress  with  protruding  eyes. 
Having  satisfied  herself  that  it  was  not  a 
"  ghostess  "  addressing  her  she  relapsed  into 
her  own  imperturbable  mood. 


158  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  I  done  gone  to  bed  sot>n  as  eber  der 
dishes  wuz  washed,"  she  said,  sulkily. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  temporized  her  mistress; 
"  but  after  that — in  the  night — when  you 
went  out,  where  did  you  go?" 

"  I  jes'  done  sleep  till  sun-up  dis  yeah 
mornin',"  persisted  Mammy. 

"  You  did  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  I  will 
not  permit  you  to  tell  me  such  outrageous 
stories,"  said  Beatrice  severely.  "  I  followed 
you,  and  saw  you  and  Miss  Marcia,  who  is 
not  able  to  stand  upon  her  feet  unsupported, 
and  Miss  Cherry  and  Major  Krum  were 
there,  too.  I  am  sorry,  Mammy,  that  you 
should  deceive  me  in  this  way,  or  encourage 
your  young  ladies  in  wrong-doing." 

"  Dere  warn't  no  harm  in  gwine  to  a  bar- 
beskew  ef  dey  did  go,"  answered  Mammy  in 
a  sulky  tone  ;  "  'taint  mos'  likely  de*  folks 
down  yere's  gwine  to  enjoy  demselves  same 
as  folkes  in  de  Norf,  sittin'  'round  wid  dere 
fingers  in  der  mouves.  An'  Miss  Marsh,  I 
reckon,  she  do  as  she  please,  ennyhow.  Dere 
kant  nobody  make  her  do  nothin'  she  don't 
wan'  ter,  nohow," 


NOBODY   KNOWS.  159 

"  Can  it  be  possible,  Mammy,  that  you 
think  it  a  proper  thing  for  a  young  lady  to 
be  out  after  midnight  in  such  a  company, 
and  when  her  health  is  so  poor  that  she  can- 
not sit  up  an  hour  in  the  day?  Would  her 
mother,  if  she  were  alive,  countenance  such 
impropriety  for  a  moment?" 

Mammy  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  did 
not  want  to  seem  ignorant  of  the  proprie- 
ties, but  at  the  same  time  she  recalled  cer- 
tain escapades  of  her  late  mistress,  Miss 
Marie,  to  which  Miss  Marcia's  nocturnal  per- 
egrinations seemed  very  mild  amusement. 
As  her  mistress  pressed  her  for  an  answer 
she  said  at  last  in  a  low,  mysterious  voice: 

"  It  am  a  shame  to  fault-fine'  Miss  Marsh 
when  eberybody  knows  she  be  done  con- 
juh'd." 

"Conjured!"  answered  Mrs.  Marsden,  "I 
thought  it  was  only  the  colored  people  who 
were  conjured." 

"  Miss  Marcia  done  conjuh'd,"  reiterated 
Mammy,  and  not  another  word  would  she 
say. 

The   day  following   her   night  adventure 


160  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

Marcia  was  disposed  to  spend  in  sleep,  so 
that  it  was  nearly  night  when  she  consented 
to  see  Beatrice  in  her  room. 

She  lay  pallid  and  motionless  on  the  bed 
with  that  unpleasant,  repellant  look  on  her 
face  which  was  habitual  to  her  in  disagree- 
able moods.  Her  moral  and  physical  tem- 
perature were  evidently  at  low  mark.  She 
looked  defiantly  at  Beatrice,  as  if  preparing 
to  resist  her  authority. 

"  Are  you  not  feeling  as  well  as  usual  to- 
day?" asked  her  stepmother,  seating  herself 
without  invitation.  She  had  come  thither 
in  the  stern  fulfillment  of  duty  and  was  pre- 
determined to  accept  no  slight,  or  be  im- 
peded in  the  work  she  hoped  to  accom- 
plish. 

"  I  never  feel  well,"  was  the  sullen  an- 
swer. 

"  Do  you  not  think  you  were  unwise 
in  going  out  last  night  ?  "  pursued  Beatrice 
calmly. 

She  was  prepared  for  an  impatient  denial 
or  prevarication  and  expected  to  have  a 
scene  of  tears  and  recrimination,  but  to  her 


NOBODY   KNOWS.  161 

surprise  the  sick  girl  merely  looked  at  her 
with  a  vague  expression  of  surprise  and 
answered  coldly. 

"  I  was  not  out  last  night,  Mrs.  Mars- 
den,  and  I  cannot  understand  your  insinua- 
tions." 

"  Not  out  last  night — not  out,  when  I  saw 
you  myself  in  company  with  Cherry  and 
Major  Krum?  Marcia,  I  cannot  believe  that 
you  can  willfully  resort  to  tricks  of  false- 
hood and  deception,  but  what  then  am  I  to 
think  when  I  followed  you  and  saw  you  with 
my  own  eyes  walking  about  as  strong  ap- 
parently as  I  am." 

"  It  is  false,"  cried  the  sick  girl,  excitedly. 
"  You  come  here  when  I  am  alone  and  help- 
less and  insult  me.  You  know  that  I  am 
unable  to  bear  my  own  weight  alone  and 
cannot  go  out  either  in  the  daytime  or 
at  night.  You  dare  not  tell  my  father  such 
a  false,  wicked  story,  and  he  would  not  be- 
lieve you  if  you  did.  You  have  come  here 
where  you  were  not  wanted,  and  made 
us  all  wretched.  You  have  taken  my 

father's  love  away  from  me  and  driven  off 
11 


162  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY.. 

my  true  friend,  Major  Krum.  I  hate  the 
sight  of  your  cruel,  deceitful  face.  And 
you  would  come  between  Cherry  and  me, 
and  even  make  Mammy  turn  against  us 
if  you  could.  I  wish  my  father  had  never 
seen  you !  I  wish  my  own  dear  mother  had 
never  died ! " 

Beatrice  turned  faint  and  sick,  but  she 
would  not  turn  upon  the  helpless  girl. 
Again  she  pleaded  with  her. 

"  Marcia,  why  will  you  do  me  such  a 
wrong?  If  you  cannot,  will  not,  love  me,  at 
least  respect  me  as  yojur  father's  wife  and 
your  own  true  friend.  I  will  pray  for  you 
my  child  as  long  as  I  have  breath." 

"  The  stepmother's  breath,"  sneered  Mar- 
cia with  cruel  sarcasm. 

Beatrice  gave  the  sick  girl,  whose  face 
was  livid  with  pain  or  anger,  a  look  full  of 
the  divinest  pity  and  love,  then  without  a 
word  she  left  the  room. 

A  few  moments  later  Cherry  entered, 
bringing  her  sister  some  delicacy  Mammy 
had  just  sent  up.  Marcia  refused  to  touch 
it  and  at  once  proceeded  to  relate  with 


NOBODY   KNOWS,  163 

much  excitement  the  scene  that  had  just 
transpired. 

"And  to  think,"  she  concluded  indignantly, 
"  that  she  did  not  believe  me  when  I  told  her 
that  it  was  impossible  that  she  could  have 
seen  me,  that  I  am  not  able  to  walk  even, 
and  to  be  accused  in  such  a  shameful  manner 
of  being  out  last  night.  Could  it  be  possi- 
ble, Cherry,  that  she  mistook  someone  else 
for  me?  Oh,  Cherry,  who  was  with  the 
Major?" 

"  Nobody,"  said  Cherry,  not  looking  her 
sister  in  the  face. 

"  Did  he  ask  about  me  ?  " 

"  Yep,  talked  a  heap  about   you." 

"  Poor  fellow !  I  mean  to  send  him 
word  that  he  can  come  here  to  see  me 
whenever  he  pleases.  This  house  isn't  hers." 

"Yes  it  is,"  said  Cherry.  "Stepmother 
bought  it.  Paid  a  heap  of  money,  Maje 
says,  greengages  and  things  and  has  writin' 
to  show  fur  it." 

"  Mort-gages,"  corrected  Marcia. 

"  Well,  some  kind  of  plums.  Say,  Marsh, 
am  I  as  ignorant  as  a  hoss?" 


164  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  Horse,  you  mean,  Cherry.  I  am  afraid 
you  are,  but  who  said  so  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  heerd  of  it.  I've  a  great  big 
mind  to  let  her  learn  me  something." 

"Teach  you,  you  mean.  That  woman, 
Cherry,  when  she  has  treated  me  so  badly, 
so  shamefully?  Why,  Cherry,  you  don't 
seem  to  care  that  she  said  I  was  out  at 
a  dance  last  night ;  I  dreamed  of  one  and 
thought  I  saw  you  and  the  Major  there, 
and  there  was  a  woman  with  him — a  pale 
girl  wearing  a  cloak.  I  wonder  what  it 
means." 

"  I  reckon  she  saw  the  woman  and 
thought  it  was  you,  Marsh." 

"  But  you  said,"  and  here  Marcia  became 
excited  and  raised  herself.  "  You  said 
there  was  no  one — no  one  with  the  Major." 

"  He  might  have  spoken  to  some  one  for 
all  I  know.  I  was  dancin'.  I  danced 
down  Hi  Corbin  and  it  most  killed  him. 
It  took  us  two  hours  an'  a  half.  Then  he 
faynted.  I  reckon  he  ain't  a  goin'  to  brag 
up  his  dancin'  any  more." 


CHAPTER  XIL 

"ROCK   ME   TO   SLEEP,   MOTHER." 

The  Judge  had  insisted  upon  the  pres- 
ence of  Cherry  at  each  meal,  but  unless  he 
went  after  her  and  brought  her  in  by  main 
force — the  girl  kicking  and  scratching  at 
every  step — it  was  very  seldom  she  ap- 
peared. So  far  as  he  was  concerned  he 
would  much  rather  have  eaten  without  her, 
but  it  was  the  wish  of  Beatrice  that  he 
assert  his  parental  authority  in  the  matter. 
When  she  did  come  she  walked  in  and 
took  her  seat  with  a  saucy  air  of  defiance 
that  was  put  on  purposely  for  the  occasion 
and  was  as  aggravating  as  it  was  rude  and 
disagreeable  to  the  unhappy  stepmother 
subjected  to  it.  But  she  was  so  beautiful 
and  charming  even  in  her  willfulness  that 
Beatrice  would  not  despair,  but  fortified 
herself  with  the  hope  that  at  some  time 

she  would  find  the  way  to  the  child's  heart. 
165 


166  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

For  she  saw  that  Cherry  really  possessed 
a  heart,  smothered  as  it  was  in  the  rank 
weeds  of  ignorance  and  frivolity.  Her 
first  intimation  tnat  the  girl  could  be 
reached  and  subdued  in  any  way  came  to 
her  like  a  revelation.  Mrs.  Madeira  and 
her  daughter  Grace,  a  beautiful  young  lady 
of  Marcia's  age,  called  to  invite  Mrs.  Mars- 
den,  the  Judge  and  Cherry  to  an  evening 
company.  Grace  Madeira  went  up  to  Mar- 
cia's room  while  her  mother  chatted  with 
Beatrice  who  was  always  glad  to  meet  her. 
Beatrice  wore  a  pretty  house  costume,  one 
of  her  wedding  outfit,  and  the  large  par- 
lor was  in  keeping  with  the  dress  of  its 
mistress — stately  and  in  good  taste.  While 
the  two  ladies  were  chatting  on  various 
topics  Cherry  sprung  in  through  the  win- 
dow in  her  usual  impulsive  style.  She  had 
been  in  the  woods  gathering  leaves  and 
mosses,  and  her  disheveled  hair,  disordered 
dress  and  youthful  beauty  gave  her  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  childish  Ophelia.  She  was 
nothing  daunted  by  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Madeira,  nor  would  she  have  been  if  it  had 


ROCK   ME  TO  SLEEP,   MOTHER.        167 

been  the  minister  himself.  Mrs.  Madeira 
had  just  asked  Mrs.  Marsden  to  play  some- 
thing on  the  little  old-fashioned  but  elegant 
piano  which  stood  severely  locked  in  its 
rich  carvings  between  the  windows. 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  do  so,"  answered 
Beatrice,  "  but  I  have  never  had  the  key 
of  the  instrument.  It  is  months  since  I 
played." 

"  Oh,  Cherry,"  said  Mrs.  Madeira,  pre- 
suming on  her  long  acquaintance  with  the 
family,  "is  there  no  way  to  open  it?" 

"  I  reckon  thare  is,"  said  Cherry,  shortly. 
"  It's  Marsh's  piano,  and  she  keeps  the 
key  on  a  string  'round  her  neck.  Step- 
mother mought  ask  her  fur  it  ef  she  wants 
it." 

Beatrice  changed  the  conversation,  while 
Mrs.  Madeira,  distressed  beyond  measure, 
looked  her  displeasure  at  the  thoughtless 
girl ;  nor  did  she  for  a  moment  anticipate 
that  Cherry  would  accept  the  invitation 
already  given  to  attend  the  party. 

Beatrice,  however,  anticipated  the  matter 
by  preparing  her  a  very  pretty  costume, 


168  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

made  out  of  one  that  had  belonged  to  the 
Judge's  first  wife,  which,  with  some  other 
things,  had  been  kept  under  lock  and  key 
and  had  not  been  ruthlessly  sacrificed  to  a 
lesser  service.  The  girl  had  often  seen  her 
mother  wear  it  and  did  not  fail  to  recog- 
nize it  when,  with  new  ribbons,  it  was 
laid  upon  a  chair  in  her  room.  How  she 
accepted  it,  or  whether  she  accepted  it  at 
all,  Beatrice  did  not  know,  nor  could  she 
learn  whether  the  girl  intended  to  wear  it 
or  even  to  be  present.  The  Judge  had 
been  too  busy  to  interfere,  and  she  had 
answered  her  stepmother  with  her  usual 
impertinent  nonchalance,  so  when  the  time 
came  Beatrice  went  alone,  leaving  Cherry 
to  follow  or  stay  at  home  as  she  herself 
should  elect. 

The  company,  composed  of  the  best 
people  in  the  village,  had  all  assembled,  and 
were  sitting  in  stiff,  absorbed  silence,  after 
the  fashion  of  sociables,  studying  the  north- 
ern splendor  and  freshness  of  Mrs.  Judge 
Marsden's  dress — a  plain,  dark  silk,  worn 
with  some  handsome  lace,  when  all  were 


ROCK    ME   TO   SLEEP,   MOTHER.         109 

astonished  by  a  piping  voice  at  the  minis- 
ter's elbow,  saying,  with  ludicrous  solemnity: 

"  And  Satan  came  also — have  a  cheer  ? — 
don't  mind  ef  I  do." 

It  was  Cherry,  but  not  the  Cherry  of 
other  days.  She  wore  her  pretty,  new  dress, 
and  looked  so  graceful,  roguish  and  pretty 
in  it  that  all  eyes  were  charmed,  and 
Beatrice  felt  well  repaid  for  her  labor. 
What  would  have  paid  her  infinitely 
better,  however,  was  lacking — any  kindly 
recognition  of  herself.  The  girl  flounced 
into  a  corner,  where  she  was  soon  sur- 
rounded by  the  younger  members  of  the 
family,  for  whom  she  had  special  attrac- 
tions, her  quaint  ways,  her  mimicry,  and 
her  abnormal  flow  of  spirits  making  her  very 
entertaining  company  to  the  youngsters. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the  judge's 
wife  was  invited  by  her  hostess  to  furnish 
some  music.  There  was  a  very  indifferent 
piano,  and  Beatrice  regretted  the  fatuity 
that  led  her  to  part  with  her  own  superb 
instrument  upon  the  representation  of 
Richard  that  there  was  a  fine  piano  in  her 


170  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

new  home.  She  was  a  thorough  musician, 
and  had  often  relieved  her  pent-up  sor- 
rows— sorrows  of  the  past  which  she  had 
to  bear  alone — with  the  soothing  strains  of 
Mendelssohn  or  the  inspiration  of  Schu- 
mann. She  sat  down  now  to  the  instru- 
ment and  gave  one  rapid,  comprehensive 
glance  at  her  audience.  She  felt  sure  the 
keys  would  respond  to  her  touch  with  the 
"  Sweet  By-and-by "  or  "  Nearer,  My  God, 
to  Thee,"  and  almost  wondered  at  the  ease 
with  which  they  followed  her  in  the 
"Moonlight  Sonata"  of  Beethoven.  As  the 
last  note  died  away  she  saw  the  people 
yawning  and  fidgeting,  and  for  a  moment 
her  fingers  lay  idly  on  the  keys.  Then 
she  touched  a  chord  softly,  and  with  a 
clear,  sweet  voice,  charged  with  an  electric, 
sympathetic  quality,  sung  a  ballad  that 
was  popular  then  as  now,  and  had  the 
power  to  touch  every  heart.  Beatrice  sung 
it  with  a  homesick  longing  for  the  reality, 
and  more  than  one  head  bowed  itself  in 
tears,  and  more  than  one  heart  responded 
with  a  sigh  of  mingled  love  and  longing 


In  a  moment  the  impulsive  Cherry  was  in  the  old  woman's  lap. 
(Page  68.) 


ROCK    ME    TO    SLEEP,    MOTHER.         173 

as  the  tender,  impassioned  prayer,  the  out- 
come of  a  broken  heart,  was  slowly  breathed 
to  the  sad  music. 

"  Backward,  turn  backward,  O  time  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again,  just  for  to-night. 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore; 
Kiss  from  my  forehead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep. 

When  the  first  verse  was  finished  the 
singer  paused  ;  she  felt  her  voice  filling 
with  tears,  and  every  note  was  a  sob.  She 
did  not  wish  to  make  others  suffer. 

"  Oh,  do  go  on  ;  please  sing  it  through," 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Madeira,  a  request  in  which 
all  the  company  joined. 

Beatrice  was  about  to  substitute  some 
joyous  strain  when  she  saw  that  Cherry 
had  moved  forward  and  taken  a  position 
near  the  instrument.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  sober,  and  a  new  and  inexplicable  ex- 
pression shone  in  her  bright  restless  eyes. 
It  seemed  to  plead  for  a  continuation  of 


174  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

the  song,  and  this  decided  Beatrice,  and  she 
sang  the  second  verse. 

"Backward,  flow  backward,  O  tide  of  the  years, 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain; 
Take  them  and  give  me  my  childhood  again. 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul  wealth  away, 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap, 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother,  rock  me  to  sleep." 

A  moment's  silence  followed  the  exqui- 
sitely sad  lines,  and  the  vibration  of  voice 
and  instrument  still  held  the  air,  when 
Cherry  dashed  from  the  room  and  was 
seen  no  more  that  evening.  Beatrice  sub- 
stituted a  merry,  mad  Strauss  waltz  and 
the  sadness  was  dispelled.  The  Judge's 
wife  was  secretly  encored  and  applauded 
in  the  hearts  of  the  social  critics,  and  as 
they  took  their  leave  the  pair  were  over- 
whelmed with  "  invites  "  to  attend  socials 
and  tea  parties  among  the  Spartans. 

"  You  have  had  quite  a  triumph  this 
evening,  Beatrice,"  said  the  Judge,  as  they 
walked  homeward. 


ROCK   ME   TO   SLEEP,    MOTHER.        175 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  his  wife,  ambigu- 
ously. 

She  was  thinking  of  Cherry. 

"Is  my  wife  hungering  for  applause?" 
inquired  Richard,  grandiloquently. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that,"  retorted  Beatrice. 
"What  do  I  care  for  those  people?  Not 
but  what  I  am  happy  to  have  pleased  or 
amused  them  ;  but  oh,  Richard,  did  you 
see  Cherry?  She  wore  the  dress  I  made 
her — she  listened  to  my  singing — it  is  only 
a  step  onward,  but  I  thank  God  for  it." 

"Beatrice,"  said  the  Judge,  indifferently, 
"  I  do  think  you  are  a  monomaniac  on  the 
subject  of  those  children.  You  overdo  this 
stepmother  business." 

"  Richard,  I  wish  you  would  discontinue 
the  use  of  that  odious  word.  Since  fate 
—  no,  since  God  —  has  willed  it  that  I 
should  be  a  representative  of  that  despised 
and  unhappy  class  I  will  devote  my  life 
to  elevating  and  improving  my  position, 
but  it  is  a  hard  work  to  do.  If  I  am  just, 
I  seem  hard.  I  cannot  win  respect,  much 
less  love.  To-night  I  have  had  the  first 


176  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

glimpse  of  comfort  that  has  been  vouch- 
safed me.  Oh,  Richard,  you  are  answer- 
able  to  God  for  the  future  of  these  dear 
children.  Help  me  to  win  their  love." 

"Y-a-a-s,"  answered  the  Judge,  sleepily. 
"The  children  are  well  enough,  Beatrice ; 
don't  worry." 

"  Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in 
vain,"  thought  the  discouraged  woman, 
sadly. 

Before  she  slept  Beatrice  stole  softly  into 
Cherry's  room,  beset  by  a  vague  fear  that 
she  might  be  engaged  in  some  midnight 
escapade.  But  the  child  was  sound  asleep. 
One  rosy  arm  was  thrown  above  her  head 
— her  pretty  dimpled  face  was  smiling  and 
peaceful.  The  stepmother  watched  her  a 
long  time.  She  thought  of  that  little  head 
that  had  so  long  been  pillowed  under  the 
grave-gemmed  mold  of  Mount  H*ope — of  the 
mute  lips  that  had  never  called  her  mother. 
She  thought  of  that  other  woman  whose 
child  lay  sleeping  before  her — of  the  cruel 
wrong  she  had  wrought  her.  Was  it  her 
spirit  that  held  these  children  aloof  from 


ROCK   ME  TO   SLEEP,    MOTHER.        17f 

her?  Tears  gathered  in  her  eyes  at  her 
own  desolation.  Last,  where  she  should 
have  been  first.  Then  rose  to  her  lips  that 
divine  prayer,  "  Father,  forgive  them — they 
know  not  what  they  do." 

Stooping  over  the  sleeping  child  she 
pressed  a  kiss  of  love  and  forgiveness  upon 
the  white  brow,  from  which  the  sunny  curls 
were  brushed  away.  Cherry  half-awakened. 
"Stepmother!"  she  murmured,  and  turned 
her  head  on  its  pillow. 

"Even  in  her  sleep  she  hates  me," 
thought  Beatrice,  sadly. 

As  she  turned  to  leave  the  room  she 
saw  the  pretty  dress  Cherry  had  worn, 
folded  carefully  and  laid  on  a  chair.  It 
gave  her  a  new  hope,  since  it  was  the  first 
time  that  she  had  ever  shown  that  she  val. 
ued  any  gift  from  her  stepmother's  hand. 

"  With  Love  for  her  master  she  may  yet 
become  a  daughter  of  the  gods,"  thought 

Beatrice,  as  she  left  her  alone. 
12 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   GREEN-EYED. 

The  Judge  sat  alone  in  the  "  den  "  which 
was  his  own  special  retreat  and  smoked  an 
old  clay  pipe — the  beloved  companion  of 
his  solitary  hours — at  which  he  pulled  now 
with  vindictive  energy,  as  if  it  were  some- 
how bent  on  resisting  his  will.  Something 
evidently  had  happened  to  disturb  the  calm 
suavity  of  his  listless  nature,  for  a  volcano 
of  angry  emotions  was  surging  in  his  heart. 
Before  him  lay  a  letter  addressed  to  his 
wife,  which  he  had  just  read  and  thrown 
down,  using  as  he  did  so  one  of  those 
superfluous  oaths  which  usually  lie  in  wait 
on  the  heels  of  erasciblc  speech.  He  had 
sent  for  Major  Krum,  who  for  so  many 
years  had  been  his  faithful  henchman,  and 
who  since  the  coming  of  Beatrice  had 
been  dismissed  from  his  privileged  place 
178 


THE   GREEN-EYKI).  179 

in  the  family,  and  was  now  awaiting  him 
in  a  tumult  of  angry  thought  and  of  really 
cruel  disappointment.  He  had  believed 
fully  that  Beatrice  loved  him  with  the 
whole  depth  of  her  woman's  affection  until 
he  read  that  letter. 

When  the  Major  came  he  walked  to  the 
table  at  which  the  Judge  was  sitting,  took 
a  black  bottle  and  a  glass  away  and  hid 
them  in  a  closet,  which  he  seemed  to  have 
no  difficulty  in  finding,  and  locking  them 
up,  dropped  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  D — d  cool,  I  must  say,"  snarled  the 
Judge,  "  to  treat  a  man  that  way  in  his 
own  house." 

"  I  don't  treat ;  that  is  what  you  will 
thank  me  for  when  you  are  yourself  again. 
Now  what  is  wrong  this  time  ?  You  seem 
to  be  pretty  well  hetchelled  up  about 
somethin'." 

"  Read  that  letter,"  drawled  the  Judge 
in  dangerously  soft  tones. 

"A  letter  addressed  to  Mrs.  Marsden? 
When  I  get  that  lady's  permission  to  read 
it  I  will — not  before." 


180  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  Then  hear  me  read  it,"  suggested  the 
Judge,  in  the  same  repressed  voice : 

"  '  My   beloved — '  " 

"  Stop  ! "  commanded  Major  Krum,  with 
military  vehemence.  "By  G — d,  Jedge,  I 
ain't  much  of  a  saint,  as  you  know,  but 
when  a  man  stoops  to  discuss  his  wife — 
and  such  a  wife — with  any  other  man  liv- 
ing I  don't  want  to  know  him.  No,  sir ! 
And  if  you  persist  in  this,  sir,  I  must  de- 
cline the  honah  of  your  acquaintance ;  yes, 
sir !  the  honah  of  your  acquaintance." 

For  a  moment  the  Judge  stared  hard. 
Then  he  laughed  a  soulless,  metallic  laugh 
that  struck  on  the  Major's  soul  like  flint, 
and  like  flint  elicited  fire. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  exclaimed,  with  tragic 
eloquence.  "  Look  at  this  manly  form,  clad 
in  respectable  clothes.  Look  at  the  face 
that  was  livid  with  dissipation — at  the 
hands  that  trembled  like  a  leaf  in  the 
breeze.  There's  health,  there's  vigor, 
there's  manhood,  sir,  and  I  owe  it  to  her 
— your  wife — to  her  womanly  example, 
her  patient  pleading,  her  goodness.  And 


THE  GREEN-EYED.  181 

now  you  want  me  to  repay  her  with  insult. 
Burn  that  letter.  If  it  has  aught  to  say 
against  her  it's  the  device  of  an  enemy. 
Burn  it,  and  trust  her  as  you  would  an 
angel  from  heaven." 

"  Angels  from  heaven  don't  get  love-letters 
written  by  other  men  than  their  husbands," 
sneered  the  Judge. 

"  Look  heah,  Marsden,  stand  up,  won't 
you  ?  "  retorted  the  Major. 

"Why  should   I  stand  up?" 

"  So  that  I  can  knock  you  down  like  a 
man.  You'll  thank  me  for  it  when  you 
come  to  yourself," 

The  Judge  fingered  the  letter  irresolutely, 
and  the  Major  followed  up  his  advantage. 

"  Can't  you  see  for  yourself,  Jedge,  that 
your  wife's  letters  don't  belong  to  you.  Why 
man,  there  isn't  a  postoffice  in  the  state 
that  would  give  you  one  of  them  if  she  told 
them  not  to.  Ef  you  can't  trust  her  you've 
no  chance  in  that  direction.  Now  she  didn't 
marry  you  on  compulsion.  I've  heard  you 
were  old  lovers,  and  she  ain't  the  kir^  ot 
woman  to  love  one  man  and  marry  another, 


182  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

sure  as  you're  bawn,  Jedge.  Jest  you  hand 
that  letter  to  her,  and  tell  her — say,  how  did 
you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Found   it  here  on  my  desk." 
"  Oh !  ah  !    umph  !    Who  put   it  there  ?  " 
"Cherry,    I    think.      A  nice  thing  for  a 
man's  children  to   do,  hey?    but   perfectly 
right  under  the  circumstances." 

"  Puffickly  wrong,"  answered  the  Major. 
"  Jedge,  let  me  take  that  letter  and  give  it 
back  to  Cherry.  The  children — the  girls — 
ahem —  The  Major  stammered  and  grew 
red.  "  Miss  Marcia,  of  course,  would  not  do 
it,  but  I  think  Cherry  is  coming  round.  She'll 
put  that  letter  back  where  she  found  it." 

"Take  it,"  said  the  Judge,  regarding  it  as 
if  it  were  a  rattlesnake. 

Cherry  was  seated  upon  the  horse-block 
feeding  the  birds  when  the  Major  found  her, 
she  was  not  well  pleased  with  her  morning's 
work.  Something  in  her  stubborn  little 
heart  gave  her  trouble — a  pin-prick  of  con- 
science, possibly.  She  whistled  very  loud 
when  she  saw  the  Major,  and  affected  not 
to  see  the  letter  in  his  hand. 


THE   GREEN-EYED.  183 

"There,  you've  frightened  all  the  birds 
away,  scarecrow,"  she  said,  with  her  usual 
brusque  impertinence. 

"  Cherry,"  asked  the  Major,  solemnly, 
"  why  are  you  so  good  to  birds  and  beasts, 
and  so  hateful  to  people?" 

"  I  don't  like  people." 

"  Don't  you  love  anybody  in  the  world, 
Cherry?" 

"Yes" — and  the  bright  eyes  grew  tender 
— "  Marsh,  and  Mammy,  and  you — when 
you  'have  yohse'f." 

"Your  father?" 

"  Naw ;  why,  he  isn't  anything  to  me. 
But  I  like  him  bettah  than  stepmother." 

"  Cherry ! — keep  still  now — don't  you  run 
away;  I  want  you  to  take  this  letter  and 
put  it  where  you  found  it." 

"What  lettah?"  asked  the  girl,  wickedly. 
"  Stepmother's?  " 

"Yes." 

Cherry  seemed  to  be  considering.  She 
tore  a  large  rent  in  the  skirt  of  her  dress 
in  her  perplexity,  and  kicked  one  ragged, 
down-at-the-heel  slipper  to  a  distance,  where 


184  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

she  immediately  hopped  on  one  foot  to 
recover  it.  She  whistled  a  bird-song  that 
brought  responses  from  the  neighboring 
trees.  Then  she  looked  at  the  Major,  with 
her  pretty  head  on  one  side. 

"I  believe  she  is  a  witch,"  said  the 
Major  to  himself. 

"  Maje,"  she  asked,  suddenly,  "  kin  you 
keep  a  secret?" 

"  Cross  my  heart,"  answered  the  Major, 
tragically. 

"Then,  if  you'll  promise  to  nevah,  nevah 
tole,  I'll  tole  you  somethin'.  Marsh  and 
stepmother's  both  got  the  same  beau." 

"What?"  roared  the  Major;  "Marsh " 

"  H-u-s-h  up !  They'll  hear  yoh  in  the 
house.  It's  Gospil  truth,  an' — an'  yoh  won't 
nevah  tole?  I'm  half  in  love  with  him  my 
own  se'f." 

It  was  the  Major's  turn  to  rave.  Mar- 
cia — Marcia,  his  idol,  whom  he  had  loved 
since  she  was  an  infant  in  long  clothes — 
Marcia,  whose  mother  had  been  the  star 
he  worshiped  in  his  youthful  days,  and  to 
whom  he  had  transferred  his  allegiance  at 


THE   GREEN-EYED.  185 

first  sight  and  nourished  it  ever  since — 
even  though  a  forlorn  hope.  Marcia  in 
love  with  another  man !  The  Major  felt 
the  world  rolling  away  from  under  him. 
He  knew  without  being  told  that  he  was 
nearly  as  old  as  her  father — that  he  could 
bring  her  only  the  husks  of  a  dissipated 
life  to  satisfy  her  soul.  But  he  had  not 
once  felt  himself  insufficient.  How  many 
times  had  he  lifted  her  in  his  arms  to 
carry  her  when  she  could  not  walk,  even 
as  a  mother  would  carry  a  young  child. 
It  was  not  until  Beatrice  came  there  that 
he  saw  himself  a  wasted  convivialist,  seek- 
ing only  the  gratification  of  a  debasing 
appetite.  She  had  shown  him  up  in  his 
true  colors,  had  taught  him  to  live  a  nobler 
life,  had  helped  him  to  a  financial  stand- 
ing, and  put  him  on  a  probation,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  he  expected  to  be  able 
to  make  a  home  for  his  dear  invalid.  The 
Major  was  so  upset  that  he  leaned  his 
head  on  Cherry's  shoulder  and  groaned : 

"  Oh,    Cherry !    Cherry !    I'm    a    broken- 
hearted man  ! ' 


186  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

"  Take  your  head  off  my  shouldear," 
commanded  the  child,  with  dignity;  "an* 
don't  sniffle  while  I  tole  you  'bout  it.  Marsh 
writes  pieces  and  they're  printed  in  the 
paper — you  know,  'cause  she's  tole  you — 
an'  you  don't  much  like  it — but  this  yeah 
Yank,  he's  been  writin'  to  her  an'  sort  of 
makin'  love.  Say,  Maje,  how  do  folks 
make  love?" 

She  dropped  her  pretty  chin  into  her 
hand,  and  looked  with  her  bright,  childish 
eyes — innocent  as  those  of  any  song-bird — 
into  the  flushed  countenance  of  the  Major, 
who  was  consuming  with  wretchedness  and 
jealousy. 

"  I  dunno,"  he  answered,  gloomily;  "  there 
ain't  any  such  thing  as  love  in  the  world. 
Nobody  loves  anybody,  so  far  as  I  can 
see." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Cherry;  "you  doan' 
love  Marsh — Marsh  doan'  love — what's  his 
name — Edgar — Mr.  Harrington,  hum  — 
mebbe  not." 

At  this  moment  Beatrice  came  toward 
them.  Her  sweet  face — always  serene  and 


THE  GREEN-EYED.  187 

dignified,  even  though  it  bore  an  habitual 
look  of  trouble — seemed  sad  and  downcast. 
Cherry  snatched  the  letter  from  the  Major 
and  held  it  up. 

"  Lookin'  for  this?"  she  queried,  pertly. 
Beatrice  stared  a  moment  in  genuine  sur- 
prise. 

"Where  did  you  obtain  this  letter?" 
she  asked,  calmly. 

"  'Tained  it  from  the  floor,"  was  the  an- 
swer. 

"  Have  you  been  reading  my  correspond- 
ence?" inquired  Beatrice,  looking  in  turn 
from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Answer  your  mother,  Cherry,"  said  the 
Major,  in  a  sulky  voice. 

"  I  picked  the  lettah  up  and  gave  it  to 
Marsh,"  answered  the  girl,  defiantly. 

"  What  right  had  you  to  give  my  letters 
to  any  one  ?  " 

"Don't  be  scared,  she  didn't  read  it.  I 
took  it  down  to  feyther  this  s'morn  to 
give  back  to  you.  Dunno  how  Maje  got 
it.  All  the  same,"  continued  the  girl, 
stamping  her  foot  and  pointing  to  the  let- 


188  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

ter,  "  he's  Marsh's  beau  and  has  writ  her 
a  heap  of  lettahs." 

"  How  dare  he  write  to  her?  She  must  be 
a  stranger  to  him.  Or  is  he  some  chance 
acquaintance  of  her  school  days?  Mrs. 
Marsden,  is  he  a  friend  of  yours?" 

"A  very  dear  friend,"  answered  Beatrice, 
with  white  lips.  "  Perhaps  the  only  friend 
I  have  in  the  world  at  this  moment — Major 
Krum,  did  you  read  my  letter?" 

"  Can  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ? " 
answered  the  Major,  warmly.  "  Deceit  (he 
pronounced  it  decate)  and  treachery  may 
undermine  me.  Before  God  I  may  be  a 
sinner,  but  I'm  not  a  traytor." 

"  I  will  see  Marcia,"  said  Beatrice,  and 
carrying  the  letter  in  her  hand  she  reentered 
the  house,  leaving  Cherry  and  the  Major  in 
angry  consultation. 

When  she  entered  the  sick  girl's  room  she 
found  her  sleeping,  and  sitting  down  beside 
her  she  contemplated  her  long  and  sadly. 
Bereaved  of  children  of  her  own  her  wom- 
an's heart  went  out  to  this  motherless  girl 
who  rejected  all  her  advances.  There  was 


THE  GREEN-EYED.  189 

something  deathlike  in  the  motionless  fig- 
ure, which  lay  relaxed  and  inert  in  a  sleep 
that  was  the  counterfeit  of  death.  An 
unwholesome  pallor  lay  upon  the  sunken 
features,  and  a  look  of  passive  weariness. 
Beatrice  no  longer  wondered  at  this,  now 
that  she  was  aware  of  the  girl's  nocturnal 
rambles.  What  she  did  wonder  at  was  that, 
with  so  much  license  to  do  as  she  pleased, 
she  should  have  any  motive  for  going  out 
in  this  silent,  secret  way  or  in  pretending  to 
be  utterly  helpless  when  she  was  not.  She 
knew  that  the  night  was  also  given  to  writ- 
ing, since  no  evidence  of  such  work  ap- 
peared. Nor  could  she  determine  Marcia's 
object  in  such  resolute  secrecy  concerning  a 
most  honorable  employment.  No  doubt 
the  girl's  object  at  first  had  been  to  acquire 
some  money.  Her  stepmother's  generosity 
had  surrounded  her  with  all  comforts  and 
made  that  motive  unnecessary.  Beatrice 
sighed  deeply  over  the  duplicity  of  one 
so  young,  and  the  sick  girl  at  once  opened 
her  eyes  wide  and  looked  at  her  with  mis- 
trust and  dislike. 


190  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  Marcia,"  said  Beatrice,  gently,  "  I  have  a 
letter  here  directed  to  me  and  written  to 
me  which  Cherry  says  you  have  seen.  Will 
you  please  answer  me  one  question?  Is  the 
same  person  who  wrote  this  letter  to  me 
also  maintaining  a  correspondence  with 
you?" 

The  girl's  sallow  cheeks  flushed  a  vindic- 
tive red. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  coldly.     "  He  is." 

"  That  is  enough.  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say,"  and  she  left  the  room,  believing 
that  Marcia  had  obtained  the  name  of 
Edgar  Harrington  from  her  own  private 
letters  in  an  attempt  to  undermine  and 
injure  Beatrice  with  one  who  loved  her,  and 
if  possible  disrupt  the  ties  which  bound  her 
father  to  a  hated  stepmother. 

And  Marcia,  excited  to  fever-heat,  threw 
off  partially  the  lassitude  which  enthralled 
her,  and  spread  open  letter  after  letter,  all 
written  in  the  same  irregular,  boyish  hand- 
writing, significant  of  college  copy  hand,  but 
atoning  for  the  immaturity  of  their  penman- 
ship by  the  warmth  of  their  language. 


THE   GREEN-EYED.  191 

"  I  wish  I  had  her  letter  here  to  compare 
them  again.  It  seems  as  if  hers  were  older 
and  wiser,  more  manly,  and  yet  the  name, 
the  signature,  is  the  same,  Edgar  Harring- 
ton. Why  does  he  write  to  one  of  us  in 
a  hand  disguised  ?  Why  does  he  write 
loving  words  to  both?  Stepmother  and 
rival,  I  hate  you." 

She  clenched  her  frail  hands  in  a  spasm 
of  unchristian  rage,  and  closed  her  weary, 
lusterless  eyes  in  a  fit  of  thinking. 

It  was  broken  at  last  by  the  entrance  of 
Cherry,  looking  most  unamiable. 

"  Marsh,  I'm  awful  discouraged.  What 
sort  of  folks  are  we,  anyhow  ?  There's  fey- 
ther  mad  as  hops  'cause  stepmother  had 
that  letter.  An'  Maje  rairing  roun'  'cause 
a  feller  has  writ  tew  you.  An'  there  don't 
ennybody  care  for  me  a  single  bit  now. 
I  went  into  the  kitchin'  an'  Mammy  says, 
'Tote  off,  I  ain't  gwine  to  hev  no  carryin's 
on  heah.  Somethin's  clar  out  of  joint  roun' 
these  parts.'  An'  stepmother's  in  her  room 
cryin'.  I  wouldn't  want  tew  be  in  her 
shoes." 


192  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  go  and  comfort 
her,"  suggested  her  sister,  with  unpleasant 
sarcasm. 

"  Marsh,  is  that  a  love-lettah,  the  one  that 
stepmother  got?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Marcia,  "  and 
yet  I  am  not  sure.  It  reads  like  one,  but 
in  books  men  write  such  letters  to  women 
they  admire  and  respect  very  much.  Pla- 
tonic love  is  what  they  call  the  sentiment. 
I  cannot  explain  it  to  you,  Cherry,  so  that 
you  can  understand." 

"  You  needn't  try,"  returned  Cherry.  "  I 
like  the  other  kind  best.  Ennybody  that 
ever  falls  in  love  with  this  child  isn't  goin' 
round  making  love  to  other  gyrls,  not 
much." 

"  It  is  only  very  noble,  superior  women 
who  inspire  such  a  love,"  said  Marcia. 

"Is  stepmother  a  noble  woman?"  asked 
Cherry  presently. 

"  Go  away,  Cherry ;  I  wish  to  sleep,"  was 
the  petulant  answer. 

Cherry  went.  She  intended  going  off  on 
one  of  her  usual  jaunts  where  she  could 


THE   GREEN-EYED.  193 

work  off  her  superfluous  vitality  in  nature's 
gymnasium,  but  as  she  passed  the  door  of 
her  stepmother's  room  she  heard  her  sing- 
ing in  a  low  minor  key,  and  stopped  to 
listen.  It  was  a  recitative  of  her  own  com- 
position, set  to  music  as  sad  as  the  words. 

"  No  place  for  me  in  all  the  broad,  green  earth, 
No  heart  that  beats  responsive  to  my  own. 
I  may  not  share  the  sorrows  or  the  mirth 
Of  those  who  leave  me  to  myself  alone. 

"  Mother,  and  yet  no  living  child  is  mine — 

That  sweet  and  precious  name  to  me  denied. 
Oh,  breaking  heart,  have  faith,  in  worlds  divine 
My  child  will  welcome  me  at  eventide. 

"Oh,  not  for  me  the  rose  without  its  thorn, 

Not  mine  the  path  of  pleasure,  broad  and  free. 
I  may  not  with  the  crown  my  brows  adorn, 
The  heavy  cross  must  first  my  portion  be. 

"No  place  for  me  !  An  alien  !  in  this  home 

I  may  not  linger  an  unwelcome  guest. 
I  hear  a  voice  that  softly  whispers,  '  Come,' 
And  bids  me  enter  on  my  promised  rest." 

It    was    an     improvi'sed    song,    such    as 
Beatrice   was    often  accustomed  to  sing  al- 
most    unconsciously,    and     to     which     her 
13 


194  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

trembling  voice  and  sad  music  gave  an  in- 
describable pathos.  Her  eyes  had  been 
closed  and  her  head  thrown  back  on  a 
reclining  chair.  Hearing  a  sound  some- 
thing like  a  sob  she  arose  quickly  and  saw 
Cherry  standing  before  her.  But  the  sob 
was  only  the  respiration  of  a  contracted 
throat.  No  tear  glistened  upon  the  round, 
red  cheek  or  dimmed  the  feverish  bright- 
ness of  the  child's  eyes.  Beatrice  saw,  how- 
ever, that  her  soul  was  stirred  to  its  depths, 
and  she  held  out  loving  arms  with  the  cry, 
"  My  child  ! "  But,  elusive  as  a  will-of-the- 
wisp,  the  girl  turned  abruptly  and  was  gone. 
But  there  had  been  that  in  her  face  that 
was  a  most  welcome  revelation  to  the 
unloved  mother.  With  a  heart  full  of  sor- 
rowful yearning  Beatrice,  as  was  her  wont, 
prayed  long  and  earnestly  that  her  work 
might  soon  be  accomplished.  It  was  dark 
when,  with  an  exhaustive  weakness,  she  rose 
from  her  petition  and  realized  that  from  an 
excess  of  feeling  she  had  fainted  on  her 
knees. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   SILENT   TREATMENT. 

That  night  Beatrice  had  a  strange  dream. 
Her  husband  had  not  spoken  to  her  since 
he  had  read  the  letter  which  Cherry — 
unhappy  child — had  thoughtlessly  rather 
than  maliciously  placed  in  his  way.  He 
went  about  in  a  dazed  sort  of  a  way,  ap- 
parently overcome  by  his  old  enemy — 
drink.  He  slept,  but  it  was  that  sodden, 
brutal  sleep  in  which  a  man  of  intellect 
and  brains  seems  so  immeasurably  inferior 
to  a  brute  animal.  A  night-taper  burned 
on  the  dressing-bureau  and  filled  the  room 
with  fitful  shadows.  The  hounds,  turned 
loose  for  the  night,  barked  and  snarled 
among  themselves,  or  gave  voice  as  they 
raced  after  some  flying  fox  that  had  vent- 
ured too  near.  But  these  were  sounds  of 
such  nightly  occurrence  that  they  seldom 
awakened  the  sleepers. 
195 


196  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

Beatrice  dreamed  that  she  was  walking 
in  a  deep,  dark  tunnel,  when  she  came  to 
a  light  that  appeared  to  be  an  open  door. 
Then  a  form  appeared  in  the  doorway; 
the  radiant  figure  beckoned  to  her,  and  as 
she  approached  she  saw  that  it  was  the 
school-friend  of  her  youth,  the  lovely  and 
gentle  Alma.  She  was  dressed  in  some 
white,  glistening  stuff,  of  a  texture  such  as 
Beatrice  had  never  seen.  On  the  bhining 
floor,  at  her  feet,  lay  a  crown  of  white 
flowers.  Her  face  was  the  same  as  of  old, 
but  lighted  from  within  with  a  celestial 
brightness.  Beatrice  even  noticed  upon  her 
hand  a  ring  such  as  she  had  often  seen 
her  wear.  And  this  was  the  conversation 
that  she  dreamed  they  held: 

ALMA.  "  Not  yet,  dear  sister.  We  may 
not  embrace  until  you  have  passed  through 
the  open  door  and  have  on  these  garments 
we  wear.  It  is  not  yet  time  for  that." 

BEATRICE.  "  But  I  am  weary  and  sore 
discouraged.  No  one  on  earth  needs  me. 
I  cannot  do  the  work  I  took  up  so  bravely. 
I  have  tried  and  failed/' 


A   SILENT   TREATMENT.  197 

ALMA.  "Only  the  Master  can  decide 
that.  He  will  send  his  messenger  in  good 
time.  Be  patient  and  strong,  dear  sister, 
for  the  troubles  of  earth  are  but  for  a 
little  season,  for  which,  too,  there  is  a 
blessed  compensation." 

BEATRICE.  "Are  you,  then,  so  happy, 
dearest  Alma?  Is  it  indeed  true  what  is 
told  of  that  wonderful  country?" 

ALMA.  "  Nothing  has  been  told  or  im- 
agined that  approaches  the  truth.  The 
greatest  joys  of  earth  are  cold  and  poor 
when  compared  to  the  blissful  rest  we  enjoy 
here,  the  peace  that  is  never  broken,  the 
happiness  that  never  fades." 

BEATRICE.  "  You  are  so  lovely,  dearest 
Alma,  so  wonderfully  fair ;  your  flesh  is 
like  alabaster  or  pearl  in  its  whiteness." 

ALMA.  "They  are  all  like  this  where 
I  come  from,  sister.  Return  now  to  your 
appointed  work.  I  will  soon  welcome  you 
here.  I  hear  the  Master  calling." 

Then  Beatrice  dreamed  that  the  open 
door  was  closed,  and  she  was  shut  out 
in  thick  darkness.  A  sense  of  suffoca- 


198  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

tion    oppressed    her,     she     struggled     and 
awoke. 

There  is  a  sixth  sense  which  science  has 
never  named.  It  is  that  by  which  we  become 
conscious  of  the  presence  of  an  unseen  per- 
son. Beatrice  was  not  alone.  Her  husband 
was  sleeping  soundly  by  her  side  ;  yet  before 
she  had  opened  her  eyes  she  was  aware  that 
some  one  was  looking  at  her.  She  sat  up 
and  confronted  Marcia — Marcia  in  a  white 
night-robe — who  was  standing,  looking  di- 
rectly at  her,  but  who  turned  without  em- 
barrassment and  began  to  fumble  among 
the  articles  on  the  toilet  table.  Beatrice 
was  unmistakably  a  woman  of  good  judg- 
ment, but  the  tragic  thought  that  at  once 
entered  her  mind  was,  "  She  has  come  to 
poison  me ! "  and  such  a  wave  of  despair 
swept  over  her  soul  that  she  would  have 
drank  without  protest  any  drug  offered 
her.  But  Marcia  carried  neither  powder 
nor  potion.  In  her  right  hand  she  held 
a  night-lamp  similar  to  the  one  burning  in 
the  room  ;  with  her  left  she  made  strange 
passes  over  the  table,  as  if  seeking  some- 


A  SILENT  TREATMENT.  199 

thing  by  the  sense  of  touch.  Beatrice 
slipped  quietly  from  her  bed  and  caught 
the  girl  by  the  arm  with  such  firmness 
that  the 'grasp  turned  her  around  and  com- 
pelled her  to  face  her.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's pause  followed  by  a  fearful  scream. 
Beatrice  instantly  relaxed  her  hold,  and 
the  girl  fell  to  the  floor  insensible,  ex- 
tinguishing the  lamp,  which  lay  broken 
at  her  feet.  The  scream  brought  Cherry 
and  Mammy,  and  the  Judge,  awakened  by 
the  tumult,  rose  hurriedly,  and  wrapping 
himself  in  his  dressing-gown  inquired  sar- 
castically if  the  guerrillas  had  arrived.  But 
he  was  really  alarmed  when  he  saw  his 
daughter  lying  insensible  at  his  feet,  and 
with  the  rest  hurried  to  administer  restora- 
tives. It  was  a  scene  of  confusion  and 
dismay,  Cherry  crying,  Mammy  reiterating 
the  mysterious  phrase,  "  done  conju'd,"  and 
Beatrice  rubbing  the  cold  hands  and  ap- 
plying restoratives.  When  they  finally  suc- 
ceeded in  restoring  her  to  sensibility  she 
was  in  her  own  bed,  but  she  looked  about 
her  in  vague  alarm. 


200  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"What  is  it?  Where  am  I?  What  has 
happened  ?  " 

Beatrice  noticed  a  new  quality  in  her  voice, 
and  a  change  in  the  expression  of  her  feat- 
ures. As  her  eyes  rested  upon  her  step- 
mother there  was  neither  distrust  nor  aver- 
sion in  them — nothing  but  an  eager  curi- 
osity. Cherry,  who  had  been  weeping  loudly 
and  wringing  her  hands,  now  added  to 
the  general  mystery  by  remarking  to 
Mammy: 

"  It  didn't  kill  her,  afteh  all." 

"What  do  they  mean? "asked  Beatrice 
of  her  husband. 

There  was  some  embarrassment  in  his 
manner,  and  he  shifted  uneasily  from  one 
foot  to  the  other,  and  his  eyes  did  not  meet 
hers  as  he  hurriedly  answered  his  wife's 
question. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing.  I  meant  to  tell  you, 
but  thought  it  was  of  no  consequence.  The 
truth  is,  ever  since  she  returned  from 
school  Marcia  has  been  a  sleep-walker — a 
somnambulist." 

"  Oh,   Richard !  and  you   never  told  me ! 


A   SILENT  TREATMENT.  201 

Was  I  so  little  deserving  of  your  confidence 
as  this?" 

"  Well,  it  wasn't  a  pleasant  thing  to  talk 
about — something  like  having  fits  in  the 
family,  or  St.  Vitus'  dance.  One  isn't  fond 
of  showing  up  such  family  skeletons." 

"  But  you  have  let  this  poor  child  suffer 
when  she  might  now  be  in  vigorous  health." 

"That  sounds  as  if  you  were  going  to 
advertise  some  patent  medicine,  Beatrice," 
responded  the  Judge.  "  I  have  had  the  best 
doctors  to  see  her,  but  they  said  it  was  a 
disease  of  the  nerves  and  could  do  nothing 
to  help  her." 

"There  are  no  diseases  of  the  nerves," 
answered  Beatrice,  warmly,  "  that  cannot  be 
controlled  by  the  mind.  You  will  see  that 
Marcia  will  cure  herself  now  without  medi- 
cine if  she  will  submit  to  the  silent  control 
of  a  stronger  will.  The  spell  is  broken 
by  violence  and  accident,  but  it  could  more 
easily  have  been  willed  away  by  a  scientific 
intelligence." 

"  Everybody  said  as  it  would  kill  her 
if  she  was  woken  up  like  that  when  she 


202  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

walked  about,"  said  Cherry,  who,  humanized 
and  tearful,  hung  over  her  sister,  the  only 
being  on  earth  whom  she  fondly  loved. 

"  Is  yoh  bettah,  honey  ?  "  inquired  Mammy, 
bending  her  sympathetic  black  visage  above 
the  white  face  sunken  into  the  pillow.  "  Is 
yoh  mortal  suah  it  ain't  done  killed  yoh  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  all  leave  the  room,"  said 
Beatrice  presently,  "  I  will  stay  with  Marcia 
the  rest  of  the  night." 

"  What  did  she  want  in  our  room, 
Beatrice?"  asked  the  Judge  at  this  moment, 
as  if  the  thought  had  just  occurred  to  him. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea,"  answered 
his  wife  with  a  shudder,  as  her  first  suspicion 
recurred  to  her.  "  Do  you  know,  Cherry?  " 

"  She  said  last  night  she  wanted  to  get — 
— a — lettah,"  muttered  Cherry,  with  her  eyes 
upon  her  sister,  who,  however,  took  no 
notice  of  her. 

"  A  letter !  my  letter  ?  Is  it  possible  that 
I  am  an  object  of  suspicion  in  my  own 
household  ?  That  my  husband's  children 
are  spies  in  his  service." 

Beatrice  spoke  with  withering  scorn,  her 


A   SILENT   TREATMENT.  2<>:; 

fine  head  superbly  poised,  her  eyes  humid 
with  tears  of  shame  and  regret. 

"  It  is  your  own  fault,  madam,"  her  hus- 
band answered,  severely.  "  When  a  wife 
receives  letters  which  she  does  not  wish  her 
husband  to  read  she  herself  furnishes  the 
evidence  which  condemns  her." 

"You  never  asked  me  for  the  letters, 
Richard,  or  even  gave  me  a  chance  to 
offer  an  explanation.  But  now  I  will  say 
that  it  is  despotism — tyranny  of  the  most 
degrading  sort — for  a  husband  to  demand 
as  a  right  that  he  shall  see  the  letters 
which  are  written  to  his  wife  by  men  or 
women,  either.  If  he  suspects  her  of  in- 
fidelity to  him  or  to  his  interest  he  has 
legal  redress.  But  if  he  loves  his  wife  and 
has  confidence  in  her  integrity  he  will 
understand  that  she  will  have  no  friends 
who  will  not  respect  and  honor  her  for 
her  own  sake  as  well  as  his.  My  friend- 
ships are  my  own — my  friend's  written 
words  to  me  are  for  me  alone.  It  is  you 
who  put  upon  me  the  dishonor  of  a  base 
suspicion." 


204  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

The  Judge  retorted  with  an  imprecation, 
and  left  the  room.  Cherry  went  with  him, 
and  Beatrice  turned  to  the  sick  girl,  who 
was  regarding  her  tenderly,  almost  lovingly. 

"Sleep,"  she  murmured,  softly;  "sleep, 
Marcia,  and  awaken  restored  to  health. 
You  will  not  be  weak  or  sick  or  bound  in 
the  service  of  somnambulism.  You  will  be 
well,  in  full  vigor,  with  the  use  of  all  your 
faculties  when  you  awake.  Sleep !  /  will 
it.  And  while  you  sleep  I  will  watch. 
Matter  is  inert.  It  is  subject  to  the  power 
of  mind.  The  over-soul  of  the  universe  is 
stronger  than  the  powers  of  disease." 

Quietly  the  sick  girl  closed  her  eyes  and 
drifted  away — away  to  the  calm  seas  of 
rest  and  infinite  peace,  to  which  the  spirit, 
disembodied  •  by  sleep,  dreamlessly  goes. 
Beatrice  sat  near  her  with  bent  head  and 
closed  eyes.  Hour  after  hour  glided  away 
and  still  the  sick  girl  slept,  and  still  Bea- 
trice sat  there  motionless,  rigid,  giving  out 
the  precious  mind  healing,  which  is  the 
special  gift  of  the  Christian  scientist.  Day 
dawned  and  the  sun  rose ;  noon  came  and 


A  SILENT   TREATMENT.  205 

passed ;  to  all  inquiries  a  backward  motion 
from  Beatrice  and  a  finger  pressed  to  the 
lips  made  answer.  Alas!  what  harm  has 
been  done  by  over-officiousness.  It  has  been 
well  said  that  ignorance  can  tear  down  in 
a  day  what  knowledge  has  been  a  thou- 
sand years  building.  It  was  Mammy  who, 
in  the  stupidity  of  her  faithful  nature, 
broke  the  spell  at  last  by  forcing  her  way 
in,  with  a  tray  of  refreshments,  sure  that 
her  "deah  Miss  Marsh  was  done  starved." 
Marcia  opened  her  eyes  and  sprang  up  in 
bed,  feeling  new  life  in  every  limb  and 
prescient  with  health  and  vigor,  but  the 
tired  and  prostrated  healer,  out  of  whom 
so  much  magnetism  had  escaped,  lay  back 
in  her  chair,  white,  insensible,  and  to  all 
appearance  dead. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CROOKED    PATHS   MADE   STRAIGHT. 

"This  must  be  the  place,"  said  one  of 
two  strangers  who  stood  regarding  Clyffe 
House  with  curious  eyes.  "  Why,  I  had 
expected  something  of  civilization  here, 
but  this  ancient  pile  is  as  dignified  a  ruin 
as  one  could  wish  to  see.  Picturesque, 
rather,  isn't  it,  Rob?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  younger  man, 
with  a  very  respectful  intonation.  "  It 
looks  as  if  it  had  been  some  feudal  castle 
of  the  sixteenth  century." 

"What  do  you  know  of  feudal  castles, 
Rob?"  interrogated  Edgar  Harrington,  as 
a  smile  of  amusement  crossed  for  a  mo- 
ment his  anxious  face.  "  The  place  has  a 
natural  beauty  to  commend  it.  This  un- 
familiar foliage  is  beautiful.  This  must  be 
a  tulip-bush.  But  there  is  no  appearance 
of  life  here." 

206 


PATHS   MADE   STRAIGHT.  2<>7 

"  I  should  admire  to  know  where  the 
front  door  is,"  said  Rob,  dropping  into 
his  native  Boston  dialect. 

"  Why,  on  the  side  of  the  pillared  por- 
tico, of  course,"  answered  Harrington. 
"  Look,  there's  a  face  at  the  window. 
There's  a  plant  indigenous  to  the  south." 

Mr.  Harrington  was  looking  at  Mammy's 
black  face,  set  off  by  round,  staring  eyes 
and  a  red  turban,  and  was  naturally  rather 
startled  at  Rob's  exclamation: 

"  Good  heavens,  what  a  beauty !  what  a 
face — what  a  superb  color !  " 

The  boy  was  looking  at  a  small  young 
face  that  was  pressed  so  close  to  the  glass 
that  the  nose  was  flattened,  and  four  white 
spots  outlined  by  the  pressure,  but  which 
was,  nevertheless,  charming  as  a  picture, 
the  pink  color,  cleft  chin  and  bright,  spirited 
expression  indicating  a  personal  beauty  as 
rare  as  it  was  inviting. 

As  Mr.  Harrington  turned,  in  surprise,  to 
ask  of  his  companion  his  meaning  of  this 
seeming  confusion  of  ideas,  he  followed 
Rob's  eyes  and  caught  a  glance  of  the 


208  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

same  face,  which  vanished  from  the  window 
as  soon  as  he  perceived  it. 

"  That  must  be  the  one  called  Cherry," 
he  said.  "  The  other  is  an  invalid." 

Rob's  face  flushed  uncomfortably;  he 
leaned  over  the  palings  and  looked  as  if 
at  the  last  moment  he  might  be  tempted 
to  run  away.  He  glanced  at  the  window 
again,  and  saw  that  a  reinforcement  had 
arrived. 

"  Is  there  a  third  young  lady  in  the 
family?"  he  asked. 

For  a  slight,  fair  girl,  with  her  hands 
clasped  above  her  waist,  and  a  profusion 
of  brown  hair  falling  about  her  shoulders, 
was  looking  out  at  them ;  her  large,  dark 
eyes  met  those  of  Edgar  Harrington,  who 
felt  a  strange,  electric  thrill  pass  through 
his  veins,  a  feeling  of  glad,  pleasurable 
emotion,  that  moved  his  heart  with  a  sud- 
den stir.  For  a  moment  he  forgot  where 
he  was  or  what  had  brought  him  thither. 
Then  this  second  vision  faded  and  was 
gone. 

Rob   laughed,  though    not  very   merrily, 


PATHS    MADE   STRAIGHT.  209 

for  he,  too,  felt  a  thrill — that  of  approach- 
ing doom. 

"We  will  be  taken  for  housebreakers  if 
we  stand  round  here  much  longer,"  he 
said.  "  They  have  let  loose  the  dogs  of 
war  upon  us!"  he  cried,  in  real  alarm,  as 
half-a-dozen  long,  ungainly  hounds  burst 
out  with  furious  barkings  and  yelpings. 

"  Call  off  your  dogs,"  he  yelled,  climbing 
on  the  fence. 

Mr.  Harrington  stood  his  ground,  and 
the  dogs  contented  themselves  with  frantic 
demonstrations,  which  did  not  invite  further 
acquaintance.  Then  Mammy  opened  the 
door  and  called  with  a  voice  of  authority: 

"Yeah,  Plantyjinnet,  Brandywine,  Beaury- 
go'd  and  Jackson !  come  in  yeah  an'  shet 
off  dat  noise !  yeah,  Rocket  and  Trip — 
yeah,  Brandy,  Brandy,  Brandy." 

Brandy,  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader, 
and  was  a  long,  lean  hound  with  humped 
shoulders  and  red  jaws,  turned  sulkily  and 
growling  fiercely  led  the  pack  under  the 
house  again  into  their  hiding  places. 

"  Ef  you'se  lookin'  fob  de  Jedge  yoh  can 
U 


210  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

go  roun'  to  de  front  and  ring  de  bell,  but 
of  you'se  jest  loafers  and  tramps  yoh  can 
jest  get  out  of  dis  yeah  right  quick,  or  I'll 
set  de  houn's  on  and  dey'll  chaw  yoh  up 
in  no  time." 

Mammy's  old-time  hospitality  had  suf- 
fered a  sea-change  since  "  de  wah."  The 
two  travelers  did  not  stop  upon  the  order 
of  their  going  but  went  at  once,  and  in  a 
moment  after  they  had  rung  the  bell  her 
serene  face  appeared  at  the  front  door. 
She  showed  the  gentlemen  in  and  took  Edgar 
Harrington's  card  with  the  manner  of  an 
empress. 

"  Missus  Marsden  done  sick,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
s'pect  she  doan'  feel  like  seein'  no  strange 
folks." 

Beatrice  appeared  to  be  sleeping ;  two 
bright-red  spots  burned  on  either  cheek  and 
the  unnatural  emotion  through  which  she 
had  recently  passed  had  given  her  features  a 
wasted  look  that  resembled  the  effect  of  a 
long  illness.  The  Judge  was  sitting  by  her 
bed,  but  they  were  not  talking.  She  was 
too  exhausted  and  he  too  sore  and  angry. 


PATHS    MADE    STRAIGHT.  2!  I 

Marcia  was  walking  about  from  one  room 
to  the  other,  touching  everything  she  saw, 
seeming  to  recall  her  own  identity.  She 
was  puzzled,  wondering,  but  gracious  and 
gentle.  Cherry  was  looking  at  herself  in 
the  glass,  as  something  had  stirred  her 
soul  to  a  womanly  weakness.  She  had 
smoothed  her  hair  and  to  her  collarless 
dress  had  added  a  sailor  collar  and  tie. 

"Marsh?"  she  asked  hastily;  "dew  I 
talk  so  dreadful  bad?  Folks  yeah  about 
don't  seem  tew  think  so,  but  you  are  allus 
tellin'  me  I  dew." 

"I?"  returned  Marcia,  in  surprise — "I — 
I  ? — it  seems  as  if  you  ought  to  be  just  a 
little  thing  yet.  I  don't  know  enough  my- 
self to  correct  you." 

"An'  you  a  writin'  pieces  for  the  papers, 
Marsh?  I  ain't  a  authoress,  like  you,  but 
I  might  speak  properer,  I  suppose.  Guess 
I  will  go  to  school  yet." 

"  I — write  for  the  papers !  Cherry,  you 
are  dreaming,  or  else  I  am.  I  never  wrote 
anything  in  my  life." 

"Then  you  must    have    been  a  dreamin'. 


212  HER    DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

Oh,  Marsh,  did  you  dream  about  that 
young  man  what  writ  to  you?  Say!"  cried 
the  child,  excitedly,  "  I  know  now  who  he 
looks  like — it's  like  that  picture  he  sent — 
it's  him,  I  know  it  is!" 

"Picture!  what  picture?"  inquired  Marcia, 
with  a  look  of  bewilderment. 

"They've  corned  in,"  exclaimed  Cherry. 
And  the  next  moment  Mammy  ascended  to 
the  room  of  her  mistress  with  the  card. 

"Tell  him  to  come  up,"  she  whispered, 
while  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears 
and  her  low  voice  trembled  with  emotion. 

Then  she  laid  the  card  in  her  husband's 
hand,  and  said,  in  a  faint  voice : 

"  Tell  Marcia  and  Cherry  to  come  here — 
Marcia  will  know  now  that  I  had  the  first 
right  to  both  his  love  and  his  letters." 

There  were  quick  steps  on  the  stairs  and 
Edgar  Harrington  entered  the  room  and  ap- 
proached the  bed.  With  a  sad  cry  of  pleas- 
ure Beatrice  reached  out  her  arms. 

"  My  son  !  " 

"Mother!" 

And  they  embraced  as  those  do  who  are 


PATHS   MADE   STRAIGHT.  213 

near  and  dear  to  each  other.  Then  Bea- 
trice introduced  her  husband,  but  the  others 
had  vanished  at  sight  of  that  tender  meet- 
ing. 

"  Beatrice,"  whispered  the  Judge,  bending 
over  her  with  fond  solicitude,  "  I  was  a 
brute ;  forgive  me." 

"You  are  forgiven,  Richard  ;"  she  breathed 
the  words  rather  than  said  them.  "  But  Oh, 
Richard,  why  were  you  so  unreasonable? 
You  gave  me  no  chance  to  defend  myself, 
but  flew  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  both 
weak  and  wicked." 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  from  whom 
you  received  those  letters  ? " 

"You  never  asked  me.  Besides,  Richard, 
I  supposed  you  had  not  forgotten  my  foster- 
son  since  I  had  told  you  before  our  mar- 
riage of  his  existence." 

"  I  was  a  brute ;  forgive  me,"  reiterated 
her  husband. 

Marcia,  to  whom  the  past  months  and 
even  years  were  as  a  mist  seen  through 
her  strange  mental  eclipse,  had  explained  as 
well  as  she  could,  and  with  Cherry's  help,  the 


214  HER   DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

means  by  which  she  had  come  into  cor- 
respondence with  Edgar  Harrington.  The 
mystery  of  the  handwriting  was  still  a  mys- 
tery, when  young  Weir — Rob — gave  his 
penitent  testimony  with  the  excuse  that 
he  had  carried  on  in  a  spirit  of  fun  that 
which  had  at  first  been  a  matter  of  business. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  mutual  embarrass- 
ment over  the  affair,  but  Beatrice  with  the 
native  tact  of  a  good  heart,  called  them 
to  her  and  soon  managed  to  set  them  all  at 
ease.  Rob  was  forgiven  as  he  earnestly 
expressed  his  contrition,  and  Edgar  and  Mar- 
cia,  so  strangely  acquainted  were  naturally 
led  to  discuss  matters  with  considerable 
freedom.  The  result  was  that  Edgar  Har- 
rington without  overestimating  himself  soon 
discerned  that  he  already  possessed  an  in- 
terest in  the  eyes  of  a  young  lady  who  was 
a  most  attractive  study  to  his  restless  nature 
and  who  challenged  a  reciprocity  of  senti- 
ment by  a  mute  intelligence  of  her  love. 
Edgar  Harrington  was  not  informed  of 
the  Judge's  pique  and  jealousy.  Beatrice — 
true  wife — would  not  so  belittle  her  husband 


PATHS   MADE   STRAIGHT.  215 

in  the  eyes  of  another  man.  So  Richard 
Marsden  was  compelled  to  hear  his  wife's 
virtues  lauded  to  the  skies  by  the  young  man 
who  had  the  devotion  of  a  son  with  the  ardor 
of  a  lover.  Describing  her  own  goodness  to 
him  during  his  wayward  youth,  he  said  : 

"  I  have  even  been  glad  that  I  never  knew 
the  mother  who  bore  me  for  she  must  have 
suffered  by  comparison  with  her  who  saved 
me  from  myself  and  my  evil  companions  and 
made  a  man  of  me." 

Major  Krum  received  a  brief  note  from 
the  Judge  asking  him  to  come  to  the  house. 
Wondering,  he  went  and  found  strangers 
present.  He  saw  a  young  lady  he  did  not 
know  walking  about  the  room,  and  said  to 
Cherry  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"  Interjuce  me." 

A  peal  of  laughter  from  Cherry  was  his 
answer;  he  stared  in  amazement. 

"  Why  it  be  Marsh,  our  Marsh.  Doan' 
you  know  her,  Maje?" 

"  Marcia !  Miss  Marcia !  well,  and  like 
this?"  inquired  the  astonished  Major. 
"Whose  miracle  is  this?" 


216  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"  Stepmother's,"  answered  Miss  Cherry 
promptly. 

A  frown  crossed  the  face  of  Edgar  and 
he  looked  sternly  at  the  wild  girl  who 
thus  disrespectfully  alluded  to  his  dearest 
friend. 

The  Major  stood  staring  at  Marcia  who 
recognized  him  as  one  of  the  people  be- 
longing to  her  dream  life ;  he  had  changed 
so  much  since  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
seeing  him  every  day  that  he  hardly  appeared 
like  the  same  person.  Since  he  had  aban- 
doned his  drinking  and  carousing  life  and 
entered  upon  a  new  estate  of  honorable 
manhood,  he  looked  a  very  different  man 
from  the  blase,  seedy  Major  of  the  old  days. 
As  he  stood  alone  among  them  all  a  for- 
lorn look  crossed  his  face,  and  Marcia,  seat- 
ing herself  on  a  divan  by  the  low  window 
beckoned  to  him  to  sit  beside  her.  He 
blushed,  stammered  and  obeyed. 

"  Tell  me,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was 
deliciously  sweet  and  soft  to  him,  "Was 
it  with  you,  Major,  that  I  went  to  places 
where  there  was  dancing  and  musjc,  and 


PATHS    MADK    STRAIGHT.  217 

the  stars  shone  over  our  heads,  and  the 
people  were  all  shadows?" 

"  It  was  with  me,  Miss  Marcia,  just  as 
you've  been  going  ever  sence  you  were  a 
leetle  tot  of  three  years."  » 

"  Then  I  haven't  dreamed  it  all ;  but  you 
have  been  away  from  me  so  long,  and  I  was 
so  ill  and  weak,  and  now  I  am  strong  and 
well.  Did  she  do  it — the  new — papa's  new 
wife  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  and  Miss  Marcia,  she  is  an  angel ! 
We  must  be  very  good,  very  kind  to  her. 
I'm  afraid  she  hasn't  been  so  very  happy 
heah." 

"  I  have  taken  all  her  strength  away  from 
her,  but  it  will  come  back,  she  says,  and, 
Oh,  Major,  the  gentleman  father  is  talking 
to,  is  her  own  dear  son." 

"  Hem !  A  northerner,  grim  and  stiff 
enough,"  said  the  Major,  shortly. 

"  I  think  he  is  a  very  handsome  gentle- 
man !"  answered  Marcia  and  then  she  col- 
ored suddenly  and  was  silent. 

"  D n  him  !  "  muttered  the  Major. 

under  his  breath,  casting  savage  glances  at 


218  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

the  unconscious  object  of  his  jealousy.  He 
was  not  sure  that  he  was  willing  to  ex- 
change this  "  rare  and  radiant  maiden  "  for 
the  sallow  invalid  who  had  ruled  him  with 
a  rod  of  iron.  He  had  been  so  indispensa- 
ble to  the  sick  girl  with  her  strange  fancies 
and  mysterious  malady  that  it  was  hard  to 
find  his  occupation  gone. 

"  Cherry  says  he  is  an  editor,"  he  re- 
marked suddenly ;  he  had  been  jealous,  too, 
of  that  unknown  correspondent. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  answered  Marcia  press- 
ing her  hand'  to  her  forehead.  "  Perhaps 
it  will  all  come  to  me  again,  but  what  they 
tell  me  I  have  done  and  what  I  have  been, 
seem  all  a  dream  compared  to  what  I  am 
now." 

"  Is  that  your  sister  Cherry  talking  to 
that  youth — that — that  demuah  girl  with 
the  becoming  blush  ?  Miss  Marcia,  will  we 
all  be  turned  into  mice  when  the  clock 
strikes  twelve  ?  " 

Here  Cherry  joined  .them,  her  pretty 
piquant  face  aglow  with  a  rosy  pink  tinge 
that  was  bewitchingly  attractive,  and  her 


PATHS  MADE  STRAIGHT.          219 

bright  eyes  veiled  with  a  saucy  shyness  in- 
finitely becoming. 

"Marsh,"  she  whispered,  " Ae  says,"  indi- 
cating Rob  with  a  toss  of  her  small  head, 
"  that  he  likes  rude,  ignorant  gyrls  jest  like 
me,  an'  that  he  kin  teach  me  a  heap." 

"  He'd  better  learn  something  himself," 
snarled  the  Major,  glowering  at  Rob,  who 
had  been  making  himself  agreeable  to 
Cherry  for  the  past  half  hour.  "  As  if  it 
mattered  anything  to  him  what  you  know 
or  don't  know." 

That  evening  the  letters  which  Rob  had 
written  in  Edgar  Harrington's  name  to 
Marcia  were  burned  in  the  presence  of  the 
entire  family  excepting  Beatrice,  who  was 
yet  too  weak  to  sit  up.  Rob  was  spared 
the  misery  of  hearing  them  read,  it  was  bad 
enough  to  account  for  their  authorship. 

Marcia  had  actually  been  "  conjuhed,"  as 
Mammy  said,  but  the  .spell  was  not  that  of 
the  houdoo  but  of  ill-health  and  a  peculiar 
morbid  condition  of  the  mind.  The  will  of 
her  stepmother,  educated  by  science  and 
controlled  by  Christian  belief,  had  at  last 


220  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

loosed  the  bonds  which  held  her  in  such 
^firm  thrall.  She  was  saved  from  all  the 
unhappy  influences  which  had  dwarfed  and 
narrowed  her  life  almost  since  her  birth. 
There  seemed  but  one  thing  lacking,  that 
was  gratitude — first  to  God,  through  whose 
help  Beatrice  had  broken  the  spell,  and 
next  to  her  stepmother  herself  who  had  so 
faithfully  worked  to  save  her.  Before  she 
slept  that  night  she,  did  go  to  her  with  a 
pleasant  "  good-night,"  but  something  ap- 
peared to  hold  her  back  from  a  free  offer- 
ing  of  the  love  which  was  beginning  to 
dawn  in  her  heart,  but  was  too  new  and 
strange  for  expression. 

That  night  the  sisters  slept  in  each  others' 
arms.  Some  indefinable  impulse  seemed 
to  awake  in  each  a  longing  for  a  more  lov- 
ing communion  than  had  hitherto  marked 
their  intercourse,  though  there  had  never 
been  an  estrangement  between  them.  The 
two  young  men  had  insisted  upon  return- 
ing to  the  uncomfortable  little  tavern  that 
was  the  sole  hotel  the  place  boasted  of. 
Judge  Marsden  had  urged  them  to  stay 


PATHS   MADE  STRAIGHT.  221 

under  his  roof,  but  he  felt  somewhat  bitterly 
that  Edgar  Harrington  was  not  his  friend, 
that  the  younger  man  read  his  weak  and 
faltering  nature  with  less  consideration  than 
he  would  have  accorded  to  a  more  vigor- 
ously sinful  man.  So  with  a  feeling  of  act- 
ual relief  he  saw  the  two  off  and  returned 
to  his  wife  to  make  what  tardy  atonement 
he  could  for  his  late  unkind  suspicions. 
Beatrice  was  sleeping  lightly,  her  face  was 
pale  and  composed  and  wore  a  look  of 
peace  as  if  some  great  weight  had  been 
lifted  from  her  soul.  The  Judge  read  for 
some  time,  and  was  then  preparing  to  retire 
when  a  fearful  sound  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  night — the  mournful,  dismal,  prolonged 
wail  of  a  hound  ! 

The  cold  perspiration  broke  out  on  the 
Judge's  face  as  he  relaxed  that  listening 
tension  and  exclaimed. 

"  It's  nothing  but  a  dog  howling.  Con- 
found the  brute.  I've  half  a  mind  to  go 
out  and  shoot  it." 

At  that  moment  a  fumbling  hand  rattled 
the  lock  of  the  chamber  door. 


222  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

"Who  are  you  and  what  do  yo'u  want?" 
asked  the  Judge  in  melo-dramatic  tones. 
There  was  more  ditchwater  than  heroic 
blood  in  his  veins. 

"  Open  de  do',  Jedge;  'foh  God  I'se  done 
scared  to  dcth." 

"  Mammy  !  "  exclaimed  the  Judge,  throw- 
ing the  door  open  valiantly.  "What  in  the 
world  do  you  want?" 

"  Lawd  a  massy,  Jedge,  yoh  heah  dat  or- 
ful  noise?" 

"  Why,  Mammy,  I'm  not  deaf.  I  heard  it 
fast  enough." 

"An'  yoh  doan'  know  what  dat  means?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  it  means  that  old  Brandy 
had  a  supper  that  disagreed  with  her,  or  no 
supper  at  all,  or  else  its  'possum  up  a  gum 
tree,  '  coon  in  de  holler,'  as  you  .folks  say." 

"  No,  taint,  Jedge,  that  there  is  an  orful 
sign.  Doan'  yoh  nevah  heah  tell  'bout  de 
hounds  howlin'?  Dere'll  be  a  deth  in  de 
family,  Jedge,  suah  as  yoh  bawn." 

"  Of  course,  Mammy,"  answered  the  Judge, 
preparing  to  close  the  door.  We'll  all  die  if 
we  live  long  enough.  That's  all  it  means." 


PATHS   MADE   STRAIGHT.  223 

"  No  sah,  it  am  a  solemn  warnin'.  When 
my  ole  man  died  de  houn's  howl  all  night, 
and  when  little  Pete  died  dere  was  one 
came  right  undah  de  winder  and  little  Pete 
he  riz  up  and  say,  '  Wha'  dat  noise,  Mammy, 
dat  Gabrillas  trump?'  an'  dat  blessed  chile 
die  dat  next  mornin'.  You  doan'  gwine  dis- 
yemembeh  dat,  Jedge." 

"  Mammy,"  called  the  gentle  voice  of 
Mrs.  Marsden,  "  come  in,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 

Mammy  was  undressed,  in  a  white  short 
gown  and  petticoat,  and  her  head  was 
bound  up  in  a  white  turban,  but  she  paced 
stolidly  in  and  drew  near  to,  the  bed.  The 
most  prominent  features  about  her  were  the 
whites  of  her  eyes  which  seemed  to  pro- 
trude from  her  head,  and  she  shook  like  one 
in  an  ague  fit. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  her  mistress,  pointing  to 
a  space  near  her  on  the  bed,  "and  tell  me, 
Mammy,  if  you  really  believe  that  the  good 
Lord  would  send  a  message  to  any  of  His 
people  by  the  howl  of  a  dog." 

"I    done   gwine    to    question    Him  will," 


224r  HER   DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

answered  Mammy,  wagging  her  head  obsti- 
nately. "  I  know  what  I  seed  wif  my  own 
eyes." 

"  But,  Mammy  let  me  explain  to  you," 
and  Beatrice  laid  one  hand — how  white  and 
transparent  it  was — on  the  clasped  black- 
hands  of  the  old  servitor,  "  the  dog  howled 
because  we  were  up  late,  or  he  saw  the 
moon,  or  some  unusual  noise  disturbed  him  ; 
not  because  he  was  to  give  a  death-warning 
to  any  one.  Think  again,  Mammy,  would 
He  send  word  by  the  mouth  of  a  dog?" 

But  Mammy  had  gone  to  too  many  camp- 
meetings  and  was  too  well  grounded  in  her 
own  peculiar  theology  to  be  disconcerted  by 
any  such  reasoning. 

"  I  ain't  hearn  my  Bible  read  for  nothin' 
all  these  yeahs,  Miss  Marsden,"  she  answered 
with  solemn  emphasis.  "  If  de  Lawd  He 
done  ride  inter  Jusylem  on  de  colt  of  an 
ass  He  done  send  His  message  by  de  howl 
of  de  houn'." 

Beatrice  smiled,  but  it  was  a  sad,  sad 
smile.  Her  white  lips  betokened  exhaus- 
tion, and  as  the  old  black  woman,  who  had 


PATHS    MADE   STRAIGHT.  225 

nursed  generations  under  that  very  roof, 
looked  at  her,  some  touch  of  pity  and 
human  kindness  for  the  woman  she  con- 
sidered an  interloper,  came  into  her  prej- 
udiced caste-bigoted  heart. 

"Yoh  done  go  to  sleep  now,  Missis 
Marsden ;  de  Jedge  he  gwine  down  to 
shake  up  dem  dogs  an'  make  'em  'have 
'emselves.  You'se  white  an*  tired  now 
enuff  foh  one  day." 

"  Mammy,"  said  Beatrice,  sitting  up  sud- 
denly in  the  bed,  "  can't  you  love  me  a 
little  as  you  did  your  dear  Miss  Clyffe  ? " 

"  H-u-sh-h,"  answered  the  old  woman,  in 
a  sepulchral  voice ;  "  it  am  drefful  onlucky 
to  speak  of  dead  folks  after  de  sun  gone 
down.  Go  to  sleep,  chile;  I  declah  you 
look  like  you  seed  a  ghostess." 

"Good-night,  Mammy,"  said  the  Judge, 
as  he  came  in.  "Your  corn-cake  will  be 
heavy  if  you  don't  get  some  sleep.' 

"Goo'nite,  chile,"  and  Mammy  went 
leaving  her  first  benediction  for  the  new 

mistress. 
15 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

A    RESPITE. 

Beatrice  was  again  able  to  take  her 
place  in  the  household,  and  now  began 
that  ideal  life  which  she  had  so  often  pict- 
ured of  a  family  circle  in  which  there  was 
no  inharmonious  element.  Edgar  Harring- 
ton and  Rob — whose  bond  of  friendship 
was  cemented  closer  than  before  by  the 
adverse  circumstances  which  had  so  nearly 
estranged  them — left  for  their  field  of 
labor,  each  bearing  in  his  heart  a  new, 
sweet  hope  that  would  eventually  blossom 
into  a  glad  fruition.  Both  had  confided  in 
Beatrice — Edgar  with  the  sacred  confidence 
that  a  man  gives  to  his  best  and  dearest 
friend,  in  a  trembling  fear  of  disapproval ; 
Rob)  with  the  consequence  and  bravado  of 
beardless  youth  that  is  always  confident  of 
moving  mountains.  He  was  going  to  open 
a  "  school  of  correspondence "  with  one 


A   RESPITE.  227 

pupil.  Together  they  would  conjugate  the 
verb  "  to  love."  And  at  that  very  moment 
Cherry  was  trying  to  write  from  a  copy  of 
Rob's  setting — her  pretty  head  on  one  side, 
her  front  finger  inked  to  the  first  joint, 
but  resolutely  intent  upon  conquering  her 
"  ritin' "  lesson.  I  honestly  believe  Rob 
would  have  preferred  her  without  any 
"  book  learning "  whatever,  but  he  knew 
he  must  respect  the  prejudices  of  the  age 
in  which  he  lived. 

Edgar  Harrington  did  not  speak  to 
Marcia  upon  the  subject  uppermost  in 
his  thoughts.  He  knew  that  it  would  be 
a  shock  to  her  dawning  intelligence  in 
the  matters  of  practical  life,  and  he  also 
divined  with  the  jealous  eyes  of  a  new 
passion  that  Marcia  was  already  beloved. 
When  he  had  talked  with  Beatrice  he  felt 
more  secure,  and  also  more  determined  to 
bide  his  time.  So  far  he  had  loved  but 
one  woman — he  had  asked  no  other  love 
than  this  to  crown  his  life — he  had  never 
believed  that  his  heart  could  be  moved  by 
a  deeper  devotion.  But  he  knew  it  now. 


228  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

Since  he  had  met  this  strange  southern 
girl,  he  looked  into  her  soul  with  clair- 
voyant eyes  and  found  his  mate.  And 
that  knowledge  rendered  his  filial  love  for 
Beatrice  still  deeper  and  more  enduring. 

Out  of  its  ashes  of  wreck  and  ruin  Clyffe 
House  emerged,  like  the  fabled  bird  of 
eastern  legend.  The  county  people  crowded 
its  doors  again  and  found  a  gracious,  mod- 
ern hospitality  dispensed  in  place  of  the 
old-time  conviviality  that  wrought  only 
ruin.  "The  Judge"  was  no  longer  a  mis- 
nomer for  Richard  Marsden.  His  friends 
talked  of  running  him  for  congress,  an 
honor  he  was  able  to  decline  with  thanks. 
Now,  that  all  the  tiresome  discords  of  his 
domestic  life  had  ceased,  he  felt  that  he 
might  be  able  to  enjoy  the  changed  situ- 
ation of  affairs  and  take  life  easy.  He 
had  some  trifling  compunction  about  al- 
lowing his  wife  to  spend  so  much  of  her 
own  money,  but,  after  all,  she  knew  that 
he  was  a  poor  man  when  she  married  him. 
He  was  really  grateful  to  her,  and  he  loved 
her — as  much  as  such  a  man  can  love  any 


A   RESPITE.  229 

body  but  himself — better  than  he  had  ever 
loved  any  one  else.  He  thought  all  the 
worry  about  the  children  the  sheerest  non- 
sense, but  as  long  as  it  had  come  out  all 
right,  and  it  pleased  Beatrice,  he  was  satis- 
fied. But  his  standard  was  not  Excelsior. 
When  he  met  the  Major — busy,  sober, 
looking  up  business  and  really  making  a 
brave  fight  for  the  right — he  wondered  to 
himself  if  they  were  not  both  happier  under 
the  old  regime  of  an  empty  larder  and  a 
convivial  bout.  Once  he  asked  significantly: 

"  Ever  hear  the  story  of  the  man  who 
held  the  hay  so  high  his  sheep  starved?" 

"  No ;  don't  see  the  application,  either, 
not  being  a  sheep,"  retorted  the  Major 
with  spirit. 

There  was  great  wonder  in  all  the  sur- 
rounding country  over  the  remarkable  cure 
of  Marcia.  She  had  so  long  been  known 
as  afflicted  with  a  strange,  incurable  malady 
that  people  had  ceased  to  expect  her  re- 
covery. When  it  was  known  that  a  cure 
had  been  effected  without  medicine,  and  so 
suddenly  as  to  appear  almost  miraculous, 


230  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

investigating  minds  demanded  to  know  the 
method.  Mr.  Madeira,  the  rector,  was  one 
of  the  first  who  called.  He  asked  Beatrice 
if  she  had  been  practicing  witchcraft. 

"As  the  age  of  miracles  is  past,"  he  said, 
"  I  desire  to  know  by  what  means  you 
charm  disease." 

"  By  the  simplest  and  most  natural 
method  known  to  science,"  answered  Bea- 
trice, "where  the  disease  is  one  of  those 
nervous  disorders  so  common  at  the  pres- 
ent time.  In  the  days  of  my  widowhood, 
to  pass  away  time  that  had  only  sorrow 
for  its  diversion,  I  went  to  Boston  and  at- 
tended an  institution  where  the  new  doc- 
trine known  as  mind-healing  was  taught. 
I  was  interested  in  it  as  a  special  philosoph- 
ical study.  Much  of  the  instruction  was 
faulty  and  dangerous,  but  I  saw  pearls  of 
great  value  at  the  bottom  of  tons  of  rub- 
bish. The  whole  subject  is  defined  in  a 
single  sentence — the  triumph  of  mind  over 
matter." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you,  Mrs. 
Marsden,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman, 


A   RESPITE.  231 

courteously,  but  in  the  tone  of  polite  dis- 
sent which  a  man  invariably  uses  when  en- 
gaged in  argument  with  a  woman.  "  Is  it 
a  sort  of  mesmeric  influence  you  use?" 

"  Yes,  and  no,"  returned  Beatrice.  "  I 
think,  as  I  understand  it,  mesmerism  is  a 
natural  gift  growing  out  of  a  peculiar  con- 
dition of  the  nervous  system.  The  mind- 
cure  is  the  result  of  will  power.  When  the 
limbs  refuse  to  obey  the  intelligence  it  is 
popularly  supposed  that  they  have  lost 
their  muscular  power,  but  the  scientists 
claim  that  it  is  the  will  that  refuses  to 
work.  There  is  so  much  in  imagination 
that  people  often  become  violently  ill  from 
purely  fancied  disease.  They  cannot  con- 
trol their  nerves.  They  cannot  eat  or 
sleep,  yet  there  is  no  chronic  ailment.  Now 
what  they  call  the  mind-cure  is  simply  the 
effect  of  focusing  a  stronger  will  upon  the 
sick  person.  It  is  as  subtle  and  unexplain- 
able  as  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  and  as 
real  and  life  giving.  The  so-called  mira- 
cles of  causing  the  lame  to  walk  which  are 
still  occurring  in  foreign  countries  are  the 


232  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

result  of  the  mind-cure  and  nothing   more 
supernatural." 

"Do  you  deny  the  efficacy  of  prayer?" 
inquired  Mr.  Madeira,  with  a  trace  of  hor- 
ror in  his  voice. 

"  No,"  answered  Beatrice,  solemnly  ;  "you 
must  feel  that  I  do  not  when  I  assure  you 
that  my  faith  and  life  would  both  have 
been  shipwrecked  without  that  merciful  re- 
lief to  an  overburdened  soul.  The  name 
of  Christian  scientists  which  the  new  cure 
has  adopted  relieves  it  from  any  imputa- 
tion of  pagan  principles." 

"  But  why  is  not  this  famous  cure  more 
popular?"  inquired  the  rector. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  simple  things  that  is 
used  to  confound  the  wise,  and  because  it 
is  so  simple  it  is  undervalued.  I  do  not 
consider  it  an  infallible  system  myself.  I 
differ  from  the  scientists  in  claiming  that  it 
will  cure  everything.  It  will  not  set  broken 
bones  or  mend  a  severed  artery.  But  it 
will  cure  all  these  strange  nervous  diseases, 
such  as  insomnia  and  prostration  of  the 
physical  powers.  There  is  a  great,  universal 


A   RESPITE.  233 

mind — that  which  Emerson  calls  the  over- 
soul — which  regulates. all  systems  and  keeps 
the  world  balanced.  I  believe  a  universal 
centralization  of  the  human  mind  would 
work  the  greatest  results.  Let  me  give 
you  an  instance.  A  great  general  or  states- 
man is  sick  unto  death  with  a  disease  that 
is  so  mysterious  that  it  baffles  all  medical 
skill.  He  is  given  up  to  die.  The  world 
at  large  decides  his  fate — his  days  are  num- 
bered. The  scientists  claim  that  if  the 
world — one  universal  mind — believed  he 
would  or  willed  that  he  should — that  he 
at  once  would  throw  off  the  disease." 

"  The  test  can  never  be  made.  It  is 
a  foolish  theory,  vague  and  impracticable," 
answered  Mr.  Madeira.  "  Death  is  as  in- 
evitable as  life ;  the  time  comes  and  we 
die." 

"But  need  we  die  before  the  time  comes? 
Are  we  not  given  superior  intelligence  to 
the  brutes  in  order  that  we  may  make  the 
utmost  of  this  preparatory  life?  I  should 
not  want  to  think  that  God  could  make  a 
mistake,  but  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  as 


284        HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

if  it  would  have  been  better  had  He  given 
reason  to  brutes  and  instinct  to  men,  we 
make  such  poor  use  of  the  faculty." 

The  rector  looked  shocked,  but  he  could 
not  answer  such  peculiar  argument  as  this, 
so  he  changed  the  conversation  to  the  more 
material  discussion  of  Marcia's  late  illness 
and  its  phenomenal  cure.  When  he  left 
one  fact  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  that 
it  was  the  nearest  to  a  miracle  of  anything 
he  had  ever  known. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THY   KING   COMETH. 

Beatrice  was  again  very  ill.  Truly  has  the 
poet  written  : 

"  If  thou  hast  crushed  a  flower, 

The  root  may  not  be  blighted; 
If  thou  hast  quenched  a  lamp, 

Once  more  it  may  be  lighted. 
But  on  thy  harp,  or  on  thy  lute, 

The  string  which  thou  hast  broken 
Shall  never  in  sweet  sound  again 

Give  to  thy  touch  a  token." 

The  long  strain  and  tension  had  been  too 
much ;  a  chord  was  broken.  The  •  strong, 
brave  woman  who  had  borne  slight  and  con- 
tumely in  no  scant  measure  since  the  day 
she  wedded  the  lover  of  her  youth  had 
borne  up  nobly  under  adverse  circumstances 
only  to  sink  upon  the  threshold  of  success. 
She  had  suffered  so  uncomplainingly  that 
her  husband  scarcely  thought  her  ill.  He 

finally  called  upon  the  best  doctor  the  little 
235 


236  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

town  afforded  and  requested  him  to  visit 
her  and  prescribe  a  stimulating  tonic.  The 
doctor,  a  fussy  little  man,  who  hopped  like 
a  raven  and  was  so  dark  that  he  personally 
resembled  one  in  his  suit  of  professional 
black,  went  to  Clyffe  House  as  soon  as  he 
could  find  leisure  and  paid  his  respects  to 
its  mistress.  He  was  up  stairs  a  long  time, 
and  when  he  finally  came  hopping  down 
he  fidgeted  up  to  Judge  Marsden  and  mo- 
tioned mysteriously  to  a  side  room.  The 
Judge  showed  him  in  and  shut  the  door 
after  them. 

"  Nothing  serious,  of  course  ?  "  he  inquired, 
vaguely. 

The  doctor  hopped  nervously  from  one 
foot  to  the  other. 

"  'Tis  a  supprise,  weally — a  gweat  supprise, 
sah,"  he  began,  in  a  melancholy,  cracked 
voice.  But  I  find  youah  good  leddy  very 
sick  indeed,  'an  it  is  a  fac',  too,  Mister  Mars- 
den,  that  she  has  not  enything  the  mattah 
with  her — nothing  at  all  sah,  positively  no." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Judge,  drawing  a  long 
breath,  "  that  is  good  news,  Doctor,  very 


THY   RING  COMETH.  237 

good  news.  How  soon  do  you  think  she 
will  be  well  again?" 

"  Nevah,"  said  the  little  doctor,  taking 
a  pair  of  glasses  from  his  very  weak  eyes 
and  polishing  them  industriously. 

Richard  Marsden  took  the  little  doctor 
by  the  shoulders  and  turned  him  around  by 
main  force  so  that  he  could  read  his  face. 
What  he  saw  there  silenced  the  words  that 
were  crowding  to  his  white  lips.  Then  he 
took  his  hat  and  left  the  house. 

The  little  doctor  wrote  his  prescription 
and  went  his  way.  His  medical  diagnosis 
was  never  at  fault,  and  he  knew  it. 

Beatrice  had  fallen  asleep  after  his  visit 
and  slept  a  long  time.  It  was  the  sleep 
of  exhaustion  and  not  of  repose.  When  she 
awakened  Marcia  sat  fanning  her.  She 
wore  a  white  apron  girded  about  her  slender 
waist  and  was  as  hushed  and  watchful  in 
manner  as  though  she  had  been  a  profes- 
sional nurse. 

"  Where  am  I  ? "  asked  the  sick  woman, 
faintly.  "Who  is  this?" 

"It  is  Marcia.     I  am  here  to  nurse  you 


238         HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

till  you  get  well,  mother,"  said  the  girl, 
.kneeling  beside  her  and  taking  one  of  her 
white,  transparent  hands  in  hers. 

"  Who  calls  me  mother?  It  is  not  Edgar, 
and  my  child — my  child  who  would  have 
called  me  mother — lies  buried  far  away." 

"  No  !  no ! "  cried  the  girl,  sobbing  bit- 
terly, and  tenderly  kissing  the  pale,  weary 
face  on  the  pillow.  "I  called  you  mother 
— I,  Marcia,  your  wayward,  troublesome 
child.  You  are  my  dear,  dear  mother,  to 
whom  I  owe  so  much.  Oh,  get  well, 
dearest,  and  let  me  prove  that  I  am  both 
grateful  and  loving." 

"  I  know  now,"  said  Beatrice,  brushing  an 
apparent  mist  from  her  eyes.  "I  was  not 
quite  awake.  Yes,  dear,  it  repays  me  for 
all  to  know  that  I  have  won  your  heart  at 
last — at  last !  " 

Again  Beatrice  rallied,  and  Richard  Mars- 
den  was  confident  that  his  wife  would  soon 
be  well,  and,  indeed,  she  improved  enough 
to  sit  up  and  wear  her  pretty  negligee  cos- 
tumes and  take  a  renewed  interest  in  what 
was  going  on  about  her.  Cherry,  subdued 


THY   KING   COMETH.  239 

and  helpful,  hung  about  her,  but  not  yet 
had  her  tongue  framed  the  word  that  the 
stepmother  longed  to  hear — the  dear  and 
affectionate  "  Mother " — the  title  she  had 
doubly  earned.  But  she  saw  in  the  bright, 
defiant  eyes  a  new  light — that  of  a  soul 
long  imprisoned  flashing  forth  its  lambent 
fires — and  she  hoped  yet  to  win  the  recog- 
nition she  craved  from  her  willful  child. 

I  have  shown  already  that  music  had  a 
strange  and  powerful  influence  over  Cherry, 
and  now  another  great  factor  in  the  build- 
ing of  character  had  invaded  her  life. 

"Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might — 

Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in 
music  out  of  sight." 

Yes,  Cherry  was  learning  the  lesson  of 
life,  not  to  live  to  herself  alone 

Beatrice  grew  worse  again,  and  rose  no 
more  from  her  bed.  There  were  seasons 
when  a  great  wave  of  despondency  would 
roll  over  her  spirit  and  almost  submerge  it 
in  the  disconsolate  flood.  It  was  at  such 
a  moment  that,  waking  from  a  troubled 


240  HER  DESPERATE  VICTORY. 

sleep,  she  thought  herself  alone,  and  sung 
over  in  a  low,  sweet  voice,  some  of  the 
hymns  she  loved,  ending  with  one  which 
she  improvised  as  she  sung: 

"  Take  me  to  Thy  arms,  Master, 
Thy  tender,  sheltering  arms; 
Here  Thy  fold  is  bleak  and  cold, 
I  fear  its  rude  alarms. 

"  Take  me  to  Thy  heart,  Master, 
Thy  pierced  and  loving  heart; 
Here  I  may  no  longer  stay: 
'Tis  better  to  depart. 

' '  Take  me  to  Thy  home,  Master, 
Thy  blessed,  peaceful  home; 
None  molest  that  dreamless  rest: 
Oh,  bid  me  quickly  come!" 

Cherry  had  been  sitting  at  the  window  in 
the  temporary  absence  of  Marcia,  and  as  the 
last  faint,  sweet  note  died  away  the  child's 
soul,  melted  at  last  by  the  pathetic  cry  of 
a  broken  heart,  sobbed  an  accompaniment, 
and  she  knelt  by  the  bedside  and  laid  her 
sunny  head  upon  the  pillow  where  reposed 
the  head  of  the  dying  woman. 

"Mother,"  she  cried,  in  broken  accents; 
"  my  dear,  dear,  mother !  " 


THY   KING   COMETH.  241 

But  there  was  no  response.  The  girl, 
a/armed,  called  her  sister,  and  soon  the 
household  had  gathered  there,  Mammy  en- 
deavoring with  faithful  solicitude  to  call 
back  the  fluttering  breath. 

After  a  little  she  rallied  and  smiled  lov- 
ingly upon  them  all. 

<s  I  am  nearly  home,"  she  said,  brokenly. 
"  It  is  not  far,  nor  the  way  long,  now." 

Her  husband  stood  beside  her,  mute, 
wretched,  the  tears  rolling  unheeded  down 
his  pale  cheeks.  She  could  not  lift  her 
feeble  hands  to  wipe  them  away. 

The  Major  had  taken  his  farewell  and 
gone  away  where  he  could  be  alone  with 
a  sorrow  that  did  him  honor.  Marcia 
leaned  on  Mammy's  shoulder  and  hid  her 
face.  Cherry  knelt  close  to  the  dying 
woman,  and  with  troubled,  remorseful  gaze 
watched  and  waited  for  a  word  of  recog- 
nition. 

"  Dere's  a  sound  ob  chariot-wheels  a-com- 

in'    ober    de    golden    san's,"    said    Mammy, 

solemnly;  ''an'  de  Lawd  am  dribin'.     I  kin 

hear   de  voices  ob    de   angels   singin'    ober 

16 


242  HER    DESPERATE   VICTORY. 

Jordan.     Ole    Mammy  gwine    soon    to   se~ 
'em,  bress  de  Lawd ! " 

Only  the  sound  of  sobbing  broke  the 
^silence.  Then  there  was  a  long,  restful 
sigh. 

"  Life  and  sorrow  done, 
Heaven  and  rest  were  won." 

It  was  the  last  expiring  whisper  of  "  the 
stepmother's  breath." 


S:«r.ss«Sig5»3& 

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A     000  031  625    7         $ 

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